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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29794491">My Strange Angel</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/freeadvertisingspace/pseuds/freeadvertisingspace'>freeadvertisingspace</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Adventure &amp; Romance, Angst, Erotica, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff, Lovecraftian Erotica, Lovecraftian Romance, Multi, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Romance, Serial Killers, Sexual Tension, Smut</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 16:47:56</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>25,830</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29794491</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/freeadvertisingspace/pseuds/freeadvertisingspace</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>'She decided that he wasn't an unskilled painter. He really was adept at capturing human emotions, horrid though the ones he chose to represent were. She wondered, had he ever tried to capture happiness or love? Was he even familiar with those softer emotions at all? The imagery also offered a fascinating glimpse into grand and mad visions, and she wondered just how much of this was the landscape of the murderer's own mind. She traced the pale frame of one particular such scene. Six blackened hands like burned branches stretched out their clawed digits up from the flames surrounding them toward a yellow eye floating above them in a crimson sky. It seemed to peer coldly down at them, utterly indifferent and even in silent judgement to their suffering. Like a God looking down on those he had damned to the pits, it was filled with emotion and purpose in every stroke, and Nora couldn't help but to marvel it.'</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>John Hancock &amp; Female Sole Survivor, John Hancock (Fallout)/Original Character(s), John Hancock/Female Sole Survivor, John Hancock/Sole Survivor (Fallout), Pickman &amp; Sole Survivor (Fallout), Pickman (Fallout)/Original Character(s), Pickman/Female Sole Survivor, Pickman/Sole Survivor (Fallout)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Unlikely Friends</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>The commonwealth is a dangerous place with threats lurking around every irradiated corner. So, who would make a better companion than the local serial killer painter with a penchant for dismembering raiders? It also couldn't hurt to have a charming ghoulish mayor for a best friend. When Nora's past is blown to pieces and the last of her family has been stripped from her, she struggles to carve out a new normal for herself amongst the rubble of Boston.</p><p>Please let me know if you like it! This story is my favorite that I’ve written, my Magnum Opus, so feedback is always welcome so I can see how I’m doing and improve :D. You can find my other pieces more frequently updated at freeadvertisingspace on Wattpad too!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>       "You know, this damned blade has saved my hide more times than I can count now." Nora mused, her brow furrowed in thought as she turned the steel instrument over in her hands. Light sliced through the darkness when the wan beams of the crescent moon would be caught in its sleek, blackened metal surface, sending silver slivers sprinting across the dilapidated walls that were shielding the odd couple from the elements. Pickman was instantly amused by the irony of her words.</p><p> </p><p>       "That blade was never intended to <em>save</em> lives; only to <em>take</em> them." He observed, an easy smile playing across his lips. Nora's presence always had an oddly soothing effect on his soul. Being near her felt as natural as breathing, or slicing through the throat of a foul raider. She was something not quite touched by the filth of this world. The living ghost of a heady pre-War dream. He was still uncertain that she wasn't simply a construct of his own mind, conjured up to render the necessary isolation of his lifestyle bearable. Perhaps she was merely a pleasant side-effect of a night of pouring over too many old Coiffe magazines for figure practice and inspiration, and sipping irradiated bourbon to kill the boredom. It had been nearly a year since they'd met, and she was still such a <em>mystery</em> to him.</p><p> </p><p>        Auburn hair slipped like strands of silk across her shoulders when she threw back her head to laugh. It was a loud, joyous sound, unconcerned with maintaining the cautious quiet upheld by most in the commonwealth who camped outside of a settlement, hoping not to draw unwanted attention to themselves. It was the laugh of a soul who had never been weighed down by such worries, or at least who had never been raised with them, molded by them. Here was a woman molded instead by peace, and thrust headlong into an endless war that had almost ended everything. It was miraculous in itself that she managed to adapt as readily as she had, while still keeping many of the gentler mannerisms of her lost world. His favorite habit by far was the way she'd sing quietly to herself along to Diamond City radio playing through her pip boy as she roamed the crumbled streets that either of them had previously cleared of n'erdowells, picking carefully through the rubble of her old home for usable materials. Her voice would echo pleasantly through the alleys, the notes finding him and swirling around him, beckoning him to check up on her when he was within earshot, which had become quite often, and not entirely by mere happenstance.</p><p> </p><p>       "I suppose that's true" she said. "This was one of your tools after all. Still, I owe you a <em>pretty</em> big thank you for how handy it's become. I never meant to keep it, you know. I meant to trade it for food when I was in a bad way for caps. I don't prefer to get up close and personal with my enemies, especially the ferals. They're as handsy as the damn raiders and they smell about the same" she joked which earned a small smile from him. "But, without fail, every time I find myself in a sticky situation, it's this blade that sees me through it, and carves me a bloody path to safety. It's become a bit of a good luck charm to me."</p><p> </p><p>       "Oh, <em>what</em> would your adoring public ever think of you if they knew how heavily you relied on the weapon of a serial killer?" Pickman teased her, glad for the opportunity to banter with someone who was holding his knife and a decent conversation, instead of writhing beneath it and only speaking between screams to curse him or to beg.</p><p> </p><p>       A slow side-to-side tilting of her head signaled to him that she was mulling his words over in that clever mind of hers. She had told him once that she was a lawyer in her time, spreading her own much less openly violent brand of justice in the commonwealth ages before he'd even been a breeze of a thought; lifetimes before the pain of his unfortunate mother. Before his thoughts could travel that haunted path to his past, he was pulled from his reverie by another full-hearted laugh from Nora. "Nevermind that, Pickles." Her nickname for him made his eyes roll, but to be called anything endearing, especially by her still didn't fail to warm his icy heart for a few precious beats. "What I would be more concerned about is what they would do if they knew about our little meetings? We are uncomfortably chummy for many of my regular companions' tastes. I think Hancock has always assumed that I killed you. I've done my best to pick up any calling cards that we come across before he can notice. Let's just hope that chems don't give him the Sight as they do for Mama Murphy."</p><p> </p><p>       "Indeed. I have no hostile intentions for the mayor of Goodneighbor or for those under his care. His philosophies are sound and his mind is a sharp one, particularly for a man who regularly keeps himself under the influence of enough chems to down a grown Deathclaw."</p><p><br/>
       She sniggered and tossed another broken chair leg onto the small, makeshift fire burning between them.</p><p> </p><p>       He decided to satisfy a bit of curiosity while he had her around again, before they took off on their own separate paths once again. "<em>So</em>, what of yourself? Does your choice in company give you cause to question yourself? Is it a result of a shared lifestyle with our ghoulish mayor that lets you feel comfortable enough to befriend the neighborhood monster?" He leaned toward her over the fire. Orange and gold sparks reflected in his eyes, lending the illusion of warmth to the calculated cold of his calm and scrutinizing gaze. Nora loved his eyes. They fascinated her, holding more coherence and knowledge in their silvery depths than ninety percent of the people she had come into contact with, friendly or no, since she had abruptly ended her two hundred year stint as a frozen dinner.</p><p> </p><p>       "Well, I do dabble in the occasional chem to give me an edge in battle or to relax after one, but I am nowhere near Hancock's level of pharmaceutical prowess. I keep at least three doses of addictol on me at all times. I don't ever want myself to become a slave to anything. I've seen what that does to people out here. No, my choice in befriending you was entirely my own. After taking down the Institute, and <em>Shaun</em>, it's been a constant challenge to find companionship that doesn't revolve around my being the supposed <em>'hero of the commonwealth.'</em> You're one of the only people who treats me like I'm normal...well, as normal as you can hope to find out here in such a strange world." She popped open an ancient bottle of wine and took a deep swig. A cranberry droplet slid from the corner of her mouth to her chin, and Pickman was struck with the sudden and alarming urge to follow its trail back up with his own lips and tongue, then to pull her into a deep kiss. Lightning shocked his core as he became conscious of the carnal turn of his thoughts, and he shook his head to clear the echoes of imagined moans and to shake off the ghosts of her hands tangling in his hair to pull him closer. This was his good, and <em>only</em> friend. It wouldn't do to drive her away by acting like a lovesick teenager or some creep. Her further words helped to distract him. "And you're not a monster; not by my definition, anyhow. You are a...<em>creative</em> exterminator. An eccentric executioner. I've spoken with you and watched you enough to understand that you only go after the worst of people...people...that wouldn't stop any other way. I remember what really sealed the deal for me, that awful night at the camp. I couldn't personally stomach doing what you do but I can appreciate the point it makes and it is a strong one, and an effective warning to anyone willing to harm innocents. If we had someone like you around in my day, then maybe the world wouldn't be in such bad shape, and I would have had considerably less cases."</p><p> </p><p>          "Come now, if I were around as I am now back then I would have been one of your cases. Or perhaps even <em>several</em>." They both laughed, and Nora delighted in the sound. Pickman was often so stoic and composed, it was always pleasant when he was like this. They had an unspoken haven in each other, each knowing it was safe to let the other see sides of them kept hidden from much of the commonwealth. They talked for a while longer, but as the night grew ever deeper both realized they needed rest if they were going to move on in the morning. Nora was headed to Diamond City to trade some extra goods that she hadn't been able to offload in Goodneighbor. Pickman stood up and stretched, wincing as his back popped and picking up a modded sniper rifle he'd set against the wall earlier. "Get some sleep, dear. I'll take the first watch." She agreed readily and thanked him, kicking off her shoes and snuggling into her makeshift sleeping bag.</p><p> </p><p>       Nora watched Pickman through her lashes as he leaned against one of the exposed studs, peering intently out into the star filled night. There was a lovely large moon tonight that illuminated his features. The comforting sight of his familiar face watching over her followed her into sleep. What a strange guardian angel he was, but she was grateful to have him in her life. "Goodnight, Pickman." A soft smile graced his lips.</p><p> </p><p>       “Goodnight, Nora."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Lies Come to Light</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>       A few days later, Nora was plodding her way from Goodneighbor through the ruined streets of Boston, intent on reaching Sanctuary and catching up on her sorely neglected duties as General. She had already come across numerous calling cards from Pickman in this area, sometimes accompanied by little notes for her about where they should meet next, always using personal codes they'd invented to keep her identity and their agreed locations safe. So, she was not overly concerned with keeping her guard up. People could say what they wanted about her unusual painter friend, but he did a damn good job of keeping the roadways safe from all manner of predators. He was certainly more effective than the brotherhood of steel, whose only goal was to hoard pre-war technology and try to pass off genocide as morality, or the minutemen who could hardly protect her settlements without help. This newest set of notes had a small line of poetry scrawled in pen accompanying the bloody hearts.  <br/>
<br/>
</p><p><em>      'I've cleared your path with blood and gore, the same color as my current door. Come and find me if you dare, my dear <strong>Killer.'</strong></em>       </p><p> </p><p>        This meant that he was staying at the old bookstore currently; he'd painted his signature hearts all over the back of the door so that raiders wouldn't see from the outside, but he'd told her about it during their last exchange as an update to their code about his safe houses. Both of them agreed that it was highly unlikely that Raiders would step one boot into a 200 year old book store. She was passing just north of Diamond City, intent on avoiding that wretched place and its elitist attitude altogether and perhaps see if she couldn't suss out Pickman at his latest hideout for a quick afternoon chat and lunch, when the familiar pops of gunfire called her attention to a nearby alley. It was known raider territory, and she shrugged it off, assuming that they were infighting again as raiders so often did, struggling to wrestle power from one another whenever possible alongside bullying anyone in their path. It was only when a large explosion nearly knocked her from her feet, and she heard what sounded like a familiar voice amongst the screams, that she started running, yanking her heavily modded combat shotgun from her shoulders as her feet sent her flying over the mountains of rubble and trash, miraculously not stumbling in her haste.         </p><p><br/>
       When she reached the door of the makeshift defense wall surrounding the camp, it was already swinging loosely on its hinges after apparently being ripped partway off. She gathered a dented old tin can in her free hand and tossed it inside. It was immediately riddled with holes, but from surprisingly few sources of gunfire and without the telltale whir of a turret. She could see the smoking, twisted chunks of one by her foot, having been blown over the fence by some unknown force. So, this would be tricky but <em>not</em> as impossible as dealing with live turrets.  </p><p> </p><p>       Making a mental note of the positions the shots came from, Nora threw herself through the door, aiming and firing rapidly with ruthless efficiency as it clattered against the fence. The first two raiders flew backwards to the ground with torsos and limbs shredded by the blasts. There were other bodies everywhere, new ones, and Nora's blood ran cold as she recognized the bladed handiwork of the same person whose scream had led her charging into this horrid place.       </p><p> </p><p>      <strong><em>  "Pickman!"</em></strong> She screamed, ashamed of how desperate and raw her voice sounded. She spun around, and when she didn't immediately see him, she started flipping every corpse she passed that was face down, hefting body after body with great effort. "Are you here?" She cried, becoming more frantic by the second. The sliced up bodies were fresh and missing his calling cards, so he had to be nearby. She wasn't paying attention to her surroundings in her panicked state. A body slamming into her knocked the breath out of her and the shotgun from her grip. "Damnit!" She screamed as a hulking male raider with a messy red Mohawk pinned her down.    </p><p> </p><p>       "Hey, sweetheart! You're a <em>fine</em> lookin' piece of ass, ain't ya? Let's have some <em>fun</em>!" He smirked at his helpless victim. Nora gagged at his rancid breath and body odor, unwilling to ask him to elaborate on what sort of 'fun' he was thinking about. The offensive bulge pressing against her thigh was answer enough. He struggled to part her legs with his, and his filthy hands tore at her leather armor. A rancid tongue ran a sticky trail up her neck to her ear, and Nora almost lost her lunch of fancylad snack cakes right onto her attacker. A deep growl tore from her throat and she rammed her head into his, bashing her forehead straight into his nose, shattering the fragile cartilage. He yelped and lost his hold on her wrists where he had grabbed her, cursing up a storm. "Oh, you fucking little <strong>bitch</strong>! You'll pay for that!"</p><p> </p><p>        She made to get away but he punched her with his free hand, shoving his other sleeve against his face to stem the bleeding. She grunted and took the blow, earning a nasty bruise and cut to her cheek. It wasn't enough to throw off her attempts though, as she managed to get one of her legs free and around his shoulder, twisting him into a hold. They grappled back and forth on the gorey ground until Nora finally managed to get her hands on her shotgun again. She bashed the butt repeatedly into the raider's skull, until her hands were slick with blood and brain matter, and he had stopped twitching. She scooted herself away from his body, standing up and sucking in shaky breaths, rubbing frantically at her neck. This was no time for a panic attack. She still had to find Pickman, and root out any remaining survivors. A shuffling from one of the raised shacks to her right made her whip around, gun cocked. Pickman was leaning heavily against the shabby doorframe, clutching his side. His suit and hair were singed and the latter had come partially out of its signature ponytail, framing his face. She noticed a dark stain that was spreading from his fingers through the fabric.</p><p><br/>
     <em><strong>  "Nora?"</strong> </em>He sounded incredulous, and stared at her as though he'd seen a ghost. "Oh, thank heavens, you're al—<em>ungh!!</em>"</p><p> </p><p>       He fell forward, tumbling down the rickety stairs. His body struck the bottom with a sickening thud.</p><p><br/>
       "Pickman!" She shrieked, running over to him. The cause of his fall cackled loudly from the shack, stepping out. It was a female raider, the only apparent survivor of Pickman and then Nora's mini-massacre.</p><p> </p><p>       "Serves him right! No one kills my men and gets away with it." The woman brandished a bloody switchblade, dripping fresh droplets, and she was glaring at Nora with a face filled with murderous intent. "And you're next, <em>girlie</em>." She pocketed her blade and yanked out a pistol, but Nora was faster, still having her shotgun ready. She screamed her rage as she unloaded round after round into the raider, until she was nothing but chunks littering the makeshift floor, and Nora needed to reload. Instead, she yanked out Pickman's blade and frantically stabbed at the corpse, sobbing her rage at the woman for taking away one of the few people that remained in her circle of care.        </p><p> </p><p>"Damn you! <em>Damn you,<strong> damn you!</strong></em> Damn all of you fucking raiders straight to <strong><em>Hell!</em></strong>"</p><p> </p><p>        Shakily, she sheathed her weapon and stumbled back on her haunches, spent and regaining control, then instantly regretting the mess she had made. It would have made a super mutant like Strong proud, she thought with a sick feeling. She crawled the rest of the way to Pickman, who was facedown and unmoving on the concrete floor at the bottom of the steps with his limbs bent at what were most certainly uncomfortable angles. She was horrified to see that he was badly shot up and covered in all manner of cuts and shrapnel wounds, some quite serious including a number of strikes to his back that Nora guessed came from the last raider that she killed. A quick finger to his neck let her release the breath she'd been holding in, along with a wave of fresh sobs and thanks to whatever deity was apparently watching over them. He was alive, but barely stable. Gingerly, she rolled him over, and he groaned in pain. </p><p> </p><p>       "Oh, Pickman. Oh, fuck!" Nora's hands scrambled over his bloodstained coat. It was likely ruined, and in his delirious state Pickman was struck with the urge to laugh at the absurdity that he felt more frustrated with its loss than the damage to his own flesh. After all, flesh was a common material in the commonwealth, but Italian silk? Not nearly so...      </p><p> </p><p>       She lifted his head into her lap, wincing as shards of broken glass and other sharp fragments strained against the fabric of her worn jeans, eagerly seeking entrance into the skin encased within them.</p><p> </p><p>       "What were you doing, or <em>thinking</em>? God, I know we're both tough cookies but you should have never taken on an entire raider camp on your own. I was planning on taking this as a settlement, and I was going to bring Strong and Danse, for fuck's sake! Even then, I knew it wouldn't be a walk in the park. It's amazing that you managed to take out all but four of them on your own, with only a <em>knife</em>." While she was chastising him, she busied herself with prepping a syringe of Med-X and two Stimpaks, flicking the needle-tips with her crimson-tipped fingers. The fact that at least a small portion of the blood that stained them was his own, that his life's essence was soaked into the porcelain canvas of her body, should not have sent such a violent thrill through his broken form, and yet it rocked him and his weary soul weakly sang its joy. She was still chattering angrily away to him, and he couldn't help but think her even more beautiful when she was angry. "What possessed you to do something so <strong><em>stupid</em></strong>, anyway?! This type of carelessness is so out of character for you. I'm just glad I happened to be passing by. I was going to come see you." She deftly plunged the needles into his arm, one at a time, depressing the plungers at a steady pace, though her entire body was shaking from adrenaline and fear. Yes, it was <em>fear</em> that he saw swirling in her eyes. Pickman was familiar enough with that particular emotion to pick out even the slightest trace of it in another person, both from personal experience and intensive 'study', and it was pouring off of Nora in heavy waves. But, what had she to fear now? They had killed all of the enemies within a city block of this place. Confusion muddied his thoughts as the Med-X did its work, sending numbing tingles coursing through his limbs and dulling the agony. "Pickman?" Her voice broke through the fog. He groaned in response, unwilling to think too hard through the haze. "What were you <em>doing</em> here?"</p><p> </p><p>       Had Richard Pickman been in his right mind, the words that followed would have never tumbled from his lips. He would have lied with a tongue as silver as his eyes, and waved her off with an excuse, perhaps something about needing an excessive amount of paint for a masterpiece project that he was embroiled in. Instead, out came the bald truth, along with a fresh trickle of blood.</p><p> </p><p>       "They left a message for me at my old gallery. I went there again to salvage what I could. It's been months since I tried to get into the lower levels, but they've taken over. The <strong><em>raiders</em></strong>. They had strung up a body out front like a warning, wearing the ribbons of what was once a vault suit. 111, it said, and I feared the worst. I came here seeking vengeance, to collect my pound of meat once again and paint all of the commonwealth red with my rage and grief. I thought you were dead, and I lost all remaining hope. Everything just went red and then black until I heard you scream for me. I can recreate every one of my works, but you are <em>irreplaceable</em> to me."</p><p> </p><p>       Nora's mouth opened and closed several times, trying to process what he had just told her. Before she had the chance to pull more out of him, the drugs and the trauma had pulled him into unconsciousness.</p><p> </p><p>       "<em><strong>Shit</strong></em>..." she ran her hands over her face, smearing dirt streaks and wracking her brain for a solution. The stimpaks had mostly stabilized him but without immediate medical care, he could easily die. Nora didn't have the know-how or the equipment to extract the bullets and dirty shrapnel from him, and all the paks had done was slow the bleeding. If she had given him any more, his flesh would have started healing around the foreign objects embedded in him, and made it that much harder to dig out later...not to mention the possible, no <em>probable</em>, infection that it would cause. She was close to Diamond City, but while she trusted the younger surgeon that resided there, his older partner was another matter entirely, and the people there were busybodies already stirred into a fearful frenzy by Piper and the former Institute. If Piper found out, and she undoubtedly would, who Nora was harboring then it would cause devastating consequences. She would rather avoid that place altogether. There was no guarantee that the gates would even open for a blood soaked woman dragging an unknown dying man. The only option that left her within walking distance was heading back to Goodneighbor. Dr. Fitzpatrick was trustworthy and discreet, and used to dealing with shady situations like this one. The only problem was <em>Hancock</em>. He would inevitably find out about Pickman even if she took him straight to her house. He knew nearly everything that went on in his little slice of Boston, as well as a fair bit outside his walls, and he would be pissed. She didn't have much of a choice, though, and Pickman was getting paler by the minute. So, she set his head down gently and staggered to her feet, grabbing up bits of fabric, poles, and rope. Within a few minutes, she had a flimsy gurney constructed that she could drag Pickman on. It wasn't a great solution, but it was better than trying to deadlift a grown man for miles.</p><p> </p><p>       It was treacherous going, but a hell of a lot easier traveling back the same route she had come from Goodneighbor, with the way already cleared and scouted. The guard she'd had Hancock post on a dilapidated bridge she'd had installed above Goodneighbor's reconstructed gate (she'd had to help him plan a new one once the original was irreparably broken in the last Super Mutant attack.) shouted down to someone behind him in the front city square, and before long the gate swung open to reveal a surprisingly concerned Fahrenheit. "Nora, what the hell <em>happened</em> to you? And who's the stiff?"</p><p> </p><p>       Nora kept trudging toward her, hating the sound of her shabby gurney scraping over broken bottles and sharp cans. She apologized mentally to Pickman for what had to be the millionth time. "I'm fine, Fahr. Just ran into some raiders is all... Long story short, they're all dead, Hangman's Alley is cleared ahead of schedule, and this is my friend who helped. He's not dead yet. He needs a doctor, Fahr. <em><strong>Now</strong></em>."</p><p> </p><p>       "Shit. Alright, fine. Come on, I'll drag your dude for you since you look like you're about to keel over." Fahr grabbed the ropes from her and dragged Pickman the rest of the way inside with much more ease, signaling the guards to slam the heavy gate behind them. Nora limped behind her as they made their way through the narrow street to the doctor's office.</p><p> </p><p>       Dr. Fitzpatrick saw them coming and cursed quietly under her breath, flicking out her cigarette and dashing inside to begin prepping her table. As they passed by the old State House, Nora's gut squirmed with guilt and fear as she stared up at the tall brick structure. Luckily, the balcony seemed empty at the moment. She hadn't seen Hancock yet on the streets either, but it was almost certain that he already knew she was here. Word traveled very quickly indeed to the Mayor's ear in his town, or what was left of his ear as he would often joke. He paid well for that, and the people loved him enough that they'd tell him regardless of pay or perks. They also knew how much he cared about her, and that she was his very best friend, so any news about her was a guarantee for them to score some free chems or brownie points.</p><p> </p><p>       Up above the street, Mayor John Hancock stared down at the familiar sight of Nora coming through Goodneighbor, lurking in the shadows of the balcony she had built out over her home, an apartment above Daisy's that she'd worked absolute <em>wonders</em> on. It was his favorite place to hide from any of his more boring duties, like paperwork. That was a comforting and warming sight, his friend being back so soon. The fact that she was clearly injured, however, and the unmoving man on the makeshift sled being hauled by Fahrenheit stripped that warmth away and replaced it with a seeping chill that coiled itself in his belly.</p><p> </p><p>       "Shit, Nora. What are you up to? That better not be who I think it is." He downed the rest of his beer and watched as the group disappeared into Dr. Fitzpatrick’s building. He'd never seen the man's face, but before sending Nora as his scout so long ago he had collected every scrap of information he could get his scarred-up hands on about the serial killer painter, <em>Pickman</em>. He and his macabre gallery of viscera were infamous, a terrified hushed whisper amongst the raiders. He was a modern day boogie man, a Jack the Ripper type who only hunted down the worst of the worst, but who Hancock considered a looming threat nonetheless. There was no telling where Pickman drew his moral lines, and who may be unlucky enough to spark his ire outside of his preferred prey. People in Goodneighbor lived by their own rules, and those may or may not <em>necessarily</em> fall in line with this suited vigilante. He was an unknown variable, and Hancock didn't like unknowns, not when it came to the safety of his citizens and friends. All he had learned about the man was that he dressed well, better than almost anyone around, and that he had long dark hair that he tied back in a low ponytail, with the rest of his hair slicked and sleek. Supposedly, his eyes were like steel, cold and sharp. He was said to be a hell of a looker for someone so twisted, and they said that he kept his beard impeccably groomed along with the rest of himself. The man Fahr had dragged along and then lifted through the doctor's door with Nora's help ticked all of those boxes and then some, except the eyes which were obviously closed and the hair that was down and tousled everywhere in a bloodstained tangled mess around his handsome face. He'd have to check all that later. He was going to have a <em><strong>long</strong></em> overdue discussion with Nora.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Whatever it Takes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>       Dr. Fitzpatrick clucked her tongue while she looked over Pickman's prone form, laid out on her surgery table.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>       "He's in horrendous shape. It's a mystery how he's even alive. If you hadn't injected him with what you could, he would have absolutely died. Still, this is going to take almost all of my current stock and many hours and it's not going to be cheap."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>       Nora slammed her hands on the counter, rattling the delicate medicine bottles strewn around it. "I don't <em>care</em> how much it costs, just make him <em>better</em>!" She shrieked, her voice breaking and no doubt carrying through the street.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>       The older woman remained calm in the formidable face of Nora's fury. She reasoned with the panicked woman, saying "It doesn't matter how many caps you throw at me. You can't buy a miracle. I'll do what I can but the rest will be up to him. He'll have to pull through with his own strength." She began working on Pickman, cutting off his ruined suit and boiling rags on the nearby stove.        Tears spilled down Nora's face as she clutched Pickman's hand. It was cold, <em>too</em> cold for her liking. She rubbed it between hers as though she could somehow send her own vitality through to him and help the healing process.       </p>
<p> </p>
<p>       "He can do it." She nodded decisively. "He's <strong><em>strong</em></strong>..."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>       "<em>Jesus</em>..." Fahrenheit ran her chipped fingernails through her short hair, asking "Just who is this guy to you, Nora? I've never seen you act like this, not even when John's been sitting in this same office." Her voice held an accusatory tone.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>       "He's...my friend, and not one that I'm willing to give up to a world that's already taken <em>everyone</em> else from me. And, that's exactly the point, Fahrenheit. John was sitting in this office, fully aware and awake with a few broken ribs and minor cuts and bruises. He wasn't <em>dying</em>."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>       "Yeah, you've got a point there. This guy is in rough shape. What's his name anyway, and how'd you meet a dapper fuck like this?"        Nora's face lost all remaining color, and she hung her head in shame. Fahrenheit had to lean in to hear the soft, agonized whisper that passed like a weary sigh through her lips.       His name...is Pickman, and I know you're aware of how I met him."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>        "WHAT THE FUCK??? Nora, <em><strong>WHY?!</strong></em>" Fahrenheit screamed at her, but quieted when Dr. Fitzpatrick shot her a death glare for startling her in the midst of such delicate work. The doctor, at least, couldn't care less about the identity of her patient. Her vow was to serve anyone who needed healing, and she supposed in a sick and roundabout way, she owed this man something. Since he'd been active and even after rumors of his death had spread, the attacks on travelers to Goodneighbor had severely dropped in frequency. The trade lines were more secure and without him she doubted she'd have nearly as many supplies available to help him or anyone else. Therefore, he was entitled to the best care she could give.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>       Nora sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. This was going to be a long night, and Fahrenheit's temper was a candle in comparison to Hancock when his flame got fanned into a frenzy. Bringing a serial murderer who she had let him believe she killed right into his home would be like pouring gasoline on the fire... she did her best to calm Fahrenheit's angst, explaining everything that had happened to lead up to this moment. Fahrenheit calmed down and crossed her arms, allowing herself to be shoo'd outside with Nora. She listened closely to her tale as Nora plopped herself shakily onto the steps, understanding that talking was probably helping her friend to take her mind off of the man possibly dying in the small office behind them. Once she was finished, Fahrenheit shook her head, but understood why Nora had acted as she had.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>       "He's the only one I felt like I could turn to in my darkest hours, after Shaun's death. With the blood of my only child staining my hands, I just couldn't face anyone, not even Hancock. Pickman's the one who tracked me down and took care of me, coaxed me out of my depression. Now it looks like it's my turn to return the favor, except at least my injuries were mostly emotional..."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>       Fahrenheit looked at her friend with soft eyes and said quietly "Hey, yours were just as serious even if you weren't bleeding on the outside. Don't downplay your mental health it's just as important, okay? You're a good person Nora. I'm sure John will eventually understand. I'm almost positive he already knows."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>       Nora snorted. "Is there anything that happens within a 20 mile radius that he <em>isn't</em> aware of?"</p>
<p> </p>
<p>       "You should be proud honestly. You actually managed to keep a secret from John Hancock!"</p>
<p> </p>
<p>       The girls both laughed, and Fahrenheit held the hand of her friend while they waited for Pickman to stabilize enough to be moved to Nora's.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>       "He'll pull through, Nora. If you're vouching for his strength then he'll be fine."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Trust Issues</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Find the more frequently updated version on Wattpad under freeadvertisingspace! Leave some feedback so I know it’s not poo plz! &lt;3</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>      "How could you bring him here? Into <em>my damn town</em>, Nora?"</p><p> </p><p>       Pickman's eyelids fluttered open as he was woken by the gravely grit of none other than John Hancock's voice, tinged with anger. The sound of clipped boot steps rattling old floorboards told him that Hancock was pacing somewhere downstairs of—well, where exactly <em>was</em> he now? The last place he remembered was Hangman's Alley. He strained to open his eyes, and as his vision cleared from the blurry fog of sleep, he took in faded red walls covered in salvaged art and a cracked ceiling painted with peeling gold-leaf. A fairly restored ceiling fan spun lazily, and the quiet buzz of the dusty, ancient bulb screwed into it was barely audible over the argument in the other room, which seemed to be down a flight of dark-stained wooden stairs diagonally to his left, though he hadn't managed to turn his head to look around any more.</p><p> </p><p>        Nora's voice reached his ears then, and his heart gave an insistent tug inside his chest towards the sound. "Well, what did you want me to do, John? He's injured. My stimpaks weren't enough; he <em>needed</em> a doctor! This was the closest, the safest place—"</p><p> </p><p>       "Well, it <em>was</em> safe until you brought home a goddamned <strong>serial killer</strong>! For fuck's sake, you told me you killed him!"</p><p> </p><p>       "I never said what I did; you just assumed and I never bothered to correct you because I knew that this would be your response!"</p><p> </p><p>       A nauseating sense of vertigo and his head slamming back onto the pillow were the only results of Pickman's pitiful attempt at getting up. The rage in the mayor's tone and a loud crash following the shouting had sent him scrambling to run to Nora's aid. He'd be damned if he became the reason she was harmed, and though he held John Hancock in high esteem, he did not entirely trust the ghoul's restraint due to his rampant addictions and the inevitable final stage of his condition. No one yet knew when or how it was triggered. If he went <em>feral</em>...</p><p> </p><p>       Pickman's body was failing him, however, as he tried repeatedly to unravel himself from the sweet-smelling sheets tucked around him. Nora had clearly placed him in a large, plush bed, set at an angle against a corner and covered in an amazingly preserved comforter sporting a quaint design of different potted cacti. Hearing Nora chastising Hancock for apparently knocking over one of her favorite plants, he calmed down for a moment and took in more of his surroundings while trying to stop the spinning in his head. Fixating on stagnant objects helped ground him.        There were multiple windows covered with ornate cut-out shutters and sheer curtains letting in colored light to splay over the covers from the neon signs of Goodneighbor. There was a long, carved table pushed against the wall to his left being used as a work desk. Scattered papers littered it as piles of rescued books made small mountains all around. There were mechanical pieces of all sizes heaped in the corner with various tools strewn about, but most interesting of all were the anatomical sketches plastered to the walls in a clustered collage, along with various occult and alchemical symbols and diagrams. It seemed his killer walked more on the dark side than he had expected, and the thought of having another person to discuss such esoteric topics warmed him. It had been too long since it wasn't an area of study that interested most people these days, who were simply trying to accumulate knowledge to <em>survive</em>, to make it to see the next day. That didn't leave many hours for philosophizing. He couldn't help but admire her even as he struggled mightily against his own injuries.</p><p> </p><p>       He redoubled his efforts to stand and eventually succeeded...in tumbling off the mattress entirely, landing with a groan on one of his most certainly fractured ribs and, more luckily, a light plush rug. Thankfully, Nora's decor was comfortable as well as pleasing to the eye, or he may have had added more facial bruises to his fancy new collection. He immediately broke into a fit of deep, chest-wrenching coughs, which did nothing to help his uncomfortable position. Nora's red head appeared, bobbing up the stairs as she ran to him, Hancock hot on her heels.</p><p> </p><p>       "<em>Pickman</em>! Shit, you shouldn't be up yet. Here..." she helped drag him back up onto the bed, where he sat with his legs slung over the side and rubbing his aching temples. Hancock leaned against the railing with his bony hip, ignoring the screech of protest that the ancient wood gave, arms crossed and glaring ebony daggers at the pair.</p><p> </p><p>       "Looks like your pet monster is awake. I'm not leaving you alone with him." He grumbled.</p><p> </p><p>        The possessive flame flickering in the ghoul's void-black eyes sent a surge of hot jealousy shooting through Pickman's gut. That was new to him, he hasn't felt that emotion in ages and never over a woman. It felt like cold liquid fire building up inside. "I'll have you know..." he began through labored breathing "That you have already unwittingly left her alone with me a number of times even overnight, dozens even, and still she has <em>always</em> returned to you unharmed. If I were going to hurt her, I would have done so already, uninjured and in familiar surroundings with a clear escape route. Your concerns are groundless and frankly quite foolish."</p><p> </p><p>      "Well, it's comforting to know you've given it so much <strong>thought</strong>!" Hancock yelled back. He started to advance toward the painter, but was stopped by a small but firm hand being placed on his shoulder by Nora.</p><p> </p><p>       "Hancock <em>please</em>." she pleaded gently, a fierce light in her green eyes; the color of pre-war grass. There was steel in those meadows right now, and he knew better than to argue with that look. Her delicate jawline was set and determined as she stared him down. It had been a long time since John had let anyone intimidate him, but he had seen this small vaulty take down a Deathclaw singlehandedly in nothing but a rusted suit of power armor missing several pieces while he had been knocked into a pile of rubble, and he was not high enough to think that pissing her off now would be in <em>any</em> way wise. "I brought him here so that he could heal" she continued "not so you could start swinging on my friend."</p><p> </p><p>       A scoff from Hancock covered the small noise of surprise from Pickman. She considered him, in front of others no less</p><p> </p><p>       "—Your <strong><em>friend</em></strong>?? Nora, we need to get you to the doctor because clearly something hit you in the head out there."</p><p> </p><p>       Hancock pleaded with Nora, holding out his scarred hands in the hopes that she'd take them and step away from the madman artist she was currently eyeing with motherly concern as the other man was testing his shattered side with a hand and wincing with every experimental push. Though his eyes were cast down currently towards what he was occupying himself with, Hancock could sense that Pickman's real focus was still on Nora. It hadn't left her since they'd run up the stairs. It was like the absolute, laser focus of a killer synth. Frankly, it made his irradiated skin crawl.</p><p> </p><p>       Nora's offended scoff and the sensation of her roughly yanking her hands from him after he had taken them in his brought him back to his senses. "You're telling <em>me</em> to get my head checked? Last time I checked, I'm not the one who took six hits of jet in the last three hours, John! For fuck's sake, don't you remember what you did to Vick and his 'boys', or did you smoke that away too? You can't seriously be trying to lecture me about Pickman. The only difference between you and he that I can see is that the point you made wasn't in the form of a painting or a sculpture, it was a body <em>hanging</em> from the roof of the Old State House and the rest filled with holes!"</p><p> </p><p>       "I didn't torture Vick and get off on it. <em><strong>I did what I needed to do!</strong></em>" John roared at her, red pulsing in his vision and his ears ringing from his own volume.</p><p> </p><p>       "Pickman doesn't exactly get off on torturing people. Has he studied fear and psychology? <em>Thoroughly</em>, yes. But, much of his actual sculpture and mutilation is post-mortem. A lot of it is gruesome, but many of the rumors were purposefully bloated by both he and the raiders. On one hand, it helps keep him safe if they have a healthy dose of fear for him, and on the other side it makes it easier for the raiders to stir up hatred for him the more he's described as a monster. It strips the message from his art, and demotes him to a simple madman. You're one of the most brilliant men I've ever met. I thought you'd be able to see that and not judge someone before you get to know them. This is the commonwealth, we're <em>all</em> painted with blood! That's another reason I thought it was safe to bring him here...I should be able to trust <em>you</em> of <em>all</em> people, John!" Nora's bottom lip was trembling, and her eyes brimmed with unshed tears even as they flashed sharply with anger. John lifted his hat and ran his hand over his head in the ghost of a repetition of an old stress habit from when he had his long, blond hair.</p><p> </p><p>       He hated this. He hated that Pickman was alive, that he was here amongst his citizens, and that he and Nora had apparently become <em>great pals</em> behind his back over the last year. He hated especially that while she <em>claimed</em> to trust him, she hadn't confided in him before, letting him blindly believe that she'd finished off the serial murderer in his own gallery all that time ago, and allowing him to wander the streets freely without even so much as a warning to Hancock and Goodneighbor. She was right, though. For all his talk of welcoming misfits, murderers, and outcasts, and never trusting the Institute or what the fat cats in Diamond City had to say, he was admittedly being a gigantic hypocrite.</p><p> </p><p>       "Shit... <em>Look</em>, I'm sorry, Sunshine. And I'm sorry for losing my temper at ya. This is just a lot for me to take in. I-I need to collect my thoughts. I'll come back later, alright?" He turned to Pickman and pointed a finger at him, pouring all of his intensity into a look that would have frozen a lesser man. Pickman simply stared back calmly, and even had the audacity to raise an eyebrow at him. "I'm going back to my State House for a while. If I hear anything suspicious or find one reason to believe you hurt Nora while I was away, then you'll become the <em>second</em> body that I string up publicly. <em>You got that?</em>"</p><p> </p><p>       Pickman smiled serenely back at him with even white teeth, the picture of the perfect almost Pre-War gentleman, though Hancock could still sense a hint of hidden danger behind the expression. "Message well received, sir. But, know that I would never hurt Nora. She has saved my life twice now, after all. Death and pain would be poor ways to repay her repeated kindness toward me." </p><p>        Hancock cursed under his breath and walked toward the stairs. Nora grabbed him before he could go and proceeded to give him a tight hug. He squeezed back and tried to ignore the man watching them with what looked suspiciously like <em>jealousy</em>. He headed off to his office, with thoughts of his private stash and several bottles of beer dancing in his stressed out mind.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Sweet Company</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>       Hours later after another home visit from the doctor and a few more rounds of stimpaks, Pickman sat with a book laid open on the dark wood table in front of him where Nora had placed him in her kitchen on the bottom floor. The table was pushed against the concrete stairway leading up to her living room, directly across the stuffed shelves of an old bar repurposed into a counter which held a gleaming pile of colorful pastries and a fresh pot of coffee, and catty-corner to the restored stove that Nora was currently bent over, stirring up an iguana stew she had started for their dinner. He tried to focus on the words spread out before him on their pages, eager to be absorbed, but his stubborn eyes followed her form instead as she bustled around in a floral apron, looking the perfect picture of the Pre-War housewife she had been. It was a stark contrast to how she normally appeared. She noticed his staring and smiled at him.</p><p> </p><p>        "Do you need anything over there? I could get you something to drink. I don't want you walking around a whole lot until your ribs fully heal, you know. It should be just a couple of hours at most until it's relatively safe. Now that all those bullets and shrapnel are out of you, it should be smooth sailing."</p><p> </p><p>       He shook his head. "No thank you. I'm not thirsty, only hungry."</p><p> </p><p><em>        ‘I am</em> starving, <em>but not for food...’ </em>his thoughts screamed at him, watching her with her arms full of vegetables and various ingredients to chop. He did his best to ignore the way her hips swayed, and the fabric swished around her calves and drew his eye to her bare feet as she padded about to and fro. Her toenails were painted red, he noted with amusement. Where had she even found nail polish?</p><p> </p><p>       "Well, let me know if that changes. This will be another half hour at least." She gestured to the pile of tatos and carrots laid out. "By the way, there was something I wanted to talk to you about..."</p><p> </p><p>     "<em>Mmm</em>, and what would that be, exactly?" He raised an eyebrow and propped his chin upon his hand, resting his elbow on the table in front of him. His book lay forgotten, pushed back.</p><p> </p><p>        "Come travel with me. At least until you're fully recovered. You're going to be slower and more sore for a while still. You're going through a very fast recovery of severe injuries, it's a lot for anyone. I know that you prefer to work alone but you need someone to watch your back." Nora uncapped another old bottle and sprinkled some of its contents into the pot. The soft scent of lavender wafted through the small kitchen and over to his seat, making his mouth water.</p><p> </p><p>       Surprise lit up his features, unbeknownst to his fair hostess. "You would want that? Out of <em>all</em> of your companions in the commonwealth, you'd choose to wander it with the likes of me?" He asked her, genuinely shocked. It was one thing to meet him every now and again for a friendly chat, but to willingly subject herself to him and the dangers he represented on a daily basis indefinitely? What would Hancock or her other friends say? What was she <em>thinking</em>?</p><p> </p><p>       She shifted uncomfortably on her feet, eyes cast downward and wearing a bashful expression he'd never seen on his killer before. "To be honest, I liked our talks and the brief moments we'd spend together. I've fallen asleep huddled in the same shelter as you more than once, and you with me. If we posed a danger to one another it would have come to light by now. We trust each other. You've seen me at my worst and most vulnerable after...after Sean's death. We're also both skilled combatants and our goals usually align where our methods differ. We would make a good team."</p><p> </p><p>      "You can get those same perks in any of the others, and without my volume of bloodshed or the worry of watching out for someone who prefers close combat, when you could choose someone like MacCready to stay safe and pick off enemies from afar. Be honest with me Nora, why me?"</p><p> </p><p>       To his further amazement, her cheeks flooded with color until her faced nearly matched her hair, and for the first time that he'd been witness to, she stumbled over her own words. "Well, I- that is to say, we....<em>umm</em>...." she tried a few more times to push the words out, then gave up with a defeated sigh, shoulders slumping. "Damnit, look. I wanted to spend more time with you, okay? I enjoy your company in particular and thought that this would be the perfect opportunity to get to know you more. Today, since you've woken up and all that chaos died down, has been <em>really</em> enjoyable and I am not ready for that to end. I'm tired of us parting ways so quickly every time, and I wanted to go ahead and ask before you have a chance to slip out into the night and disappear on me again."</p><p> </p><p>       "Hmmm, are our impromptu trysts no longer satisfactory?" He teased with a smug grin. She returned it, expertly twirling the butcher knife she'd picked up between her fingers.</p><p> </p><p>        "Surface encounters are all well and good, Pickles, but I was hoping for more of an <em>in-depth</em> experience." She giggled, finishing up her chopping and sliding the last of the cubed veggies into the boiling broth, where they bobbed about merrily with the already browning iguana chunks.</p><p> </p><p>       "<em>Well</em>" he leaned forward further, tapped his chin, and pretended to give it some thought. In reality, his mind had been instantly made up. It wasn't as though he hadn't already been her unseen companion for months now. Not having to lurk in the shadows would make protecting and watching her all the easier, and he too relished the chance to get to know this peculiar woman, his unconventional friend, even something more. It would also afford him a break from watching the shameless flirting that went on between her and Hancock, as well as her other companions' blatant attempts to gain her affections. "I suppose that could be arranged. Very well, I accept your offer. Will you want me to put my work on hold? I don't expect that my process is very pleasant to behold, though I am aware that you appreciate the end results."</p><p> </p><p>       "I would never try to change you, only understand. If you feel the need to 'work' while we're out I only ask that you keep it out of earshot if possible. I may hate raiders, but I don't personally have the stomach for that sort of death."</p><p> </p><p>       "That is perfectly understandable. I would be more concerned otherwise. You are a different type of killer than I and I honestly hope it stays that way. No need for your soul to be painted with the same dark hues as mine."</p><p> </p><p>       Later, they sat and laughed over cold beers and generous helpings of stew, followed by coffee and the incredibly sweet, cream-filled pastries that Nora called 'doughnuts', a phrase he had seen plenty of times at local Slocum Joes. There had, however, never been anything edible of that nature that he had ever found. As soon as they touched his lips and coated his tongue with their sugary warmth, he was instantly hooked. Nora's cooking skills were unparalleled as it was, but tasting what she could do in her home environment with more than base essential rations on hand was a true delight. In her vast travels across the commonwealth, she had picked up an astonishing variety of supplies and pieced together an impressive living that was more close to what he imagined Pre-War life was like than anything he had yet seen. She was rolling in caps and wanted for no luxury it seemed, yet instead of hoarding her wealth, she had given back to the community she ingratiated herself in. Goodneighbor was her main residence, he had learned, and he had taken notice of the immense improvements that had been made to nearly every inch of it since her arrival. This generosity, so rare and precious for such trying times, was yet another line on the long list of reasons that Pickman would never raise his blade to this woman. If she one day decided to do him in, then he could only stand down and accept it, gleaning a few last moments of pleasure that he would be taken out by true art incarnate. He would never take such beauty from this world that so desperately needed it. His one request would be that she use his own blade, and let him stare into her eyes as the light faded from his.        </p><p> </p><p>         Pickman picked up a fourth doughnut and took a swig of coffee, listening fondly as Nora regaled him with further tales of her adventures. Their laughter echoed down the stairs of the apartment and caused Daisy the store clerk to smile to herself. It was nice to hear Nora happy. She closed up shop and left for her own apartment, wishing Nora and her friend a silent goodnight.</p>
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<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Need To Talk</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>       Only a block away, in the Old State House, Fahrenheit rubbed her temples and stomped her foot in frustration. The mayor had been pacing back and forth for over three hours in his office, and Fahrenheit was all but ready to chuck a bottle from the coffee table between his two couches in the center of the room at his scarred dome and force him to stop his restless movements, and his frequent paranoid glances through the broken slats of the nearest window. "For the love of <em>fuck</em>, John. Would you stop that? What's gotten up your ass, anyway. You catch the clap again? I told you to stay away from that trader girl."        </p><p> </p><p>        John ignored her request and instead increased his pace, his boots kicking up dust plumes from the ancient floor, as old as the woman who now occupied his mind. But not, he thought, nearly as well-preserved. "I just don't get it, Fahr. <em>Why</em> did she help that creep? It would have been better for all of us if she had just left him to bleed out with the other bodies in his wake, or better yet if she had just let the raiders finish him off when she was scouting out his gallery for me."</p><p> </p><p>       "Would it <em>really</em>, though?" Fahrenheit's words stopped him in his tracks. He whipped around to face her so quickly that the tails of his coat snapped in the air. She held up her hands to gesture for him to settle, even though she had no fear of the ghoul's famous temper. She'd dealt with far worse than her boss's lanky ass. "Hey, hey, hey. Hear me out before going into <em>big bad daddy lecture mode</em>, alright?" Hancock rolled his eyes but still gave her a chance to speak, plopping down with a fresh puff of dust on the couch across from her. The particles caught in the light of the signs outside, and sparkled in a rainbow spectrum of colors as they swirled about like an angry cloud of minuscule bees between them. She took a deep swig from her ale bottle, offering him one in turn, which he took and began chugging at what would be an alarming rate to anyone that didn't know him as well as she did. "Think about it this way. He only kills and terrifies the <b>raiders</b>. The bigger his little urban legend grows, the wider the radius of protection around him is, driven by the fear that they've developed for him. We are smack dab in the middle of that circle. It's a healthy fear, too. I don't want to end up Pickman's art model, that's  for sure. My point is, John, as long as he's thinning the surrounding raiders' numbers, your town remains a lot safer than it would be otherwise. We <em>need</em> him, whether we like it or not. He is good for this town. I also have a sneaking suspicion that he's been supplying our merchants with his spoils. You might want to ask Daisy about that later. She told me once that a handsome stranger in a nice suit gave her an amazing deal on a bunch of clothing and random supplies, then went over and did the same with KLEO, except with more weapons than any one person would normally carry. He still left with a fat sack of caps according to her, and Finn didn't even bother to try anything with him."</p><p> </p><p>       "<em>Great</em>, now everyone in my goddamn town is a fan of the guy. Damnit, Fahr. She's over there right now with him, <b>alone</b>. I feel like I can't protect her when she's on my own turf!"</p><p> </p><p>       "What did I just say? He's only ever killed raiders. Man's got some serious beef with them, and I for one shudder to imagine what could snap a man like that. You told me before that Nora has been meeting him for a ton of months. He could have killed her any time! She's obviously as safe with him as she would be with your average 'wealther."</p><p> </p><p>       John snorted, nearly choking on his next gulp. "Yeah, and how <em>exactly</em> is that supposed to make me feel better?"</p><p> </p><p>       "Look, if you're that worried about her then why don't you just drop by and check on her? You're the mayor, aren't you? <em>Go</em>, commune with the townsfolk."</p><p> </p><p>       For a long while, the only sound in the room was the rhythmic, ringing rapping of Hancock's withered fingers on his bottle. It grew steadily faster, becoming almost a permanent chime echoing in the air before he growled in an almost feral manner and hurled it off into a shadowy corner. It shattered, and broken shards of glass sprayed across the floor and rug along with remnant drops of now-wasted booze. He couldn't care less as he hauled himself up onto his feet and clapped dust and wrinkles from his coat. "<em><b>Fine, damnit!</b></em> I need a stronger drink anyway, and Nora always keeps the best booze she finds."        Fahrenheit quirked a ginger brow at him. "Hey, now. Don't let Whitechapel here you talking like that. Nora always promised that she brings him the best."</p><p> </p><p>       Hancock smirked at her briefly before jogging down the spiral staircase.        "Heading out, boss man?" One of the guards asked him as he opened the front door to step out.</p><p> </p><p>       "Headed out for a drink with a friend, Tomcat. So, you all don't wait up."        Tomcat grinned, his ghoulish features stretching and cheer lighting up his features. "Yeah, I heard Nora's already back in town. If it's her, tell her hi will ya? She's a sweet dame. We're lucky to have her."</p><p> </p><p>       John turned away and adjusted his hat, pulling it a little lower over his eyes. "Yeah, Cat. We really are..." with that said, he turned his boots toward Daisy's Discounts and trudged through the narrow street, hoping Nora was still safe.</p><p> </p><p>       He stopped outside of the store, which had expanded into a partial diner as well. Nora's and Daisy's feminine touches were evident everywhere, including the many potted flowers and plants he stepped carefully by to reach the door. The doorway, which normally stood open with only a can chime to alert Daisy of incoming customers, had its heavy barred door shut, though he could still see inside. The light from the restored jukebox Nora had dragged out of a nearby store and restored as a gift for Daisy when they hatched what he had considered a possibly hairbrained scheme to add the coffee shop/diner portion to the building illuminated the booths sat in front of the new big window, and all the wares laid out on Daisy's shelves. There was no sign of anyone awake at this hour, and that didn't surprise him. Luckily, when Nora and some of the locals she'd recruited had torn down the worn face of the shop to replace it with its current front, she'd somehow rigged a doorbell that rang in her apartment, so people could come calling even when the store was closed. Hancock had his own key to her place, but it was the polite thing to do, so he rang it. He could hear the faint buzzing up the stairs he couldn't se to his right inside, but no other activity. He tried a couple times more until a gruff throat-clearing behind him stopped his fruitless efforts.</p><p> </p><p>       "Hey, if you're looking for the Vaulty, she just left, boss." One of the ghoulish Goodneighbor guards said in his raspy voice. He pointed the barrel of his machine gun at the bar around the corner. "Yeah, she went into the Third Rail just a few minutes ago, on the arm of some sharp-dressed guy. He was a real <em>pretty-boy</em> too. If you were looking to make a move or somethin' then I'd suggest you hurry. They was both seven sheets to the wind by the looks of it and she was giggling like a lovestruck teenager."</p><p> </p><p>       "<b>Goddamnit...</b>" Hancock cursed, straightening his coat and turning on his heel towards the neon bar lights. "Thanks, Johnson. Come by the State House later for some jet. You've earned it, pal."</p><p> </p><p>       "Hey, mentats are more my thing, but I'm not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Good luck, mayor."</p><p> </p><p>       Hancock raised his hand in a wave before disappearing swiftly down the stairs to the Third Rail.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. An Even More Unlikely Trio</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>        Magnolia's sultry voice echoed through the old subway station, swirling and mixing with the cloud from dozens of cigars and cigarettes that were casting a smokey haze across the bar, and the dance floor where a few couples twirled and danced while pressed close together. Among them were Pickman and Nora, though Pickman's movements were slightly strained from his freshly healing body. The stimpaks and med-x that Nora had supplied him with after the doctor had finished checking him over for the last time had done a thorough job, and only caused him to be slightly off balance, noticeable to only those with the keenest of eyes. Medical advancements in the Pre-War era had been truly remarkable, and the leftovers still remained so to this day.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>'Like an earthquake, starting to roll</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I felt my world shake, out of control</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Like a World War starting to brew</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Baby, it's just you'</em>
</p><p> </p><p>       Nora sighed contentedly. "Ah, I missed dancing. Nate never used to take me once we got married. He loved me, I know, but he always wanted me to fit into this <em>mold</em> that I could never match up to. I even left my job to raise Shaun, and looking back I regret that as much as I don't. It was good to have as much time with my son as possible considering all that happened. But, had the war not gone the way it had I am seeing red flags now that I never did before. I was losing my identity. It took me so long to figure that out. But, once I was on my own and it was all over, I started to realize just how much I'd faded, and just how much neither me or Nate noticed it happening." Nora relished the weightless sensation as Pickman spun her easily around the room, his hand burning an invisible brand onto the bare skin of her back, and sending tiny jolts of excitement skittering through her with every small movement that caused his fingers to rub across her flesh or tighten their grip.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>’Like a cyclone, wild and extreme</em>
</p><p>
  <em> I got my mind blown, stalking your dreams </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Waking up without a clue 'Cause baby, it's just you‘</em>
</p><p> </p><p>       He cast a puzzled look down to her. "So, then why did you stay? You always talk about your old life with a strange mixture of nostalgia and regret."</p><p> </p><p>       Sadness pulled the lush corners of her lips down and filled her eyes with distant mist as she looked away over his shoulder.</p><p> </p><p>       "Because...I wanted to fit into it too. I wanted to be the perfect wife and mother, something to be proud of having on his arm. It's what I was raised to want since I was little; that perfect American Dream. Seems I failed pretty impressively at both, otherwise why would I be so content and calm here now, in a bar after the end of the world and dancing with a wanted man amongst many other wanted men and women including myself? I have a <em>knife</em> strapped to my <em>thigh</em>, so why do I feel more at peace and accepted than at any Pre-War party or bake sale?"</p><p> </p><p>       Pickman scoffed, and his lead took a more aggressive air, his footing growing more steady, though none of it was directed at her. "Nora" his tone was sharp and hard, and his gaze was boring into her soul and setting it aflame until she thought she would melt from her little sequin dress straight onto the floor in a pathetic puddle. "That is <em>utterly</em> ridiculous. You were already perfect. There is no need to change a single thing about you. If any man isn't proud as a peacock to call you his own as you truly are, then he is afflicted with an irredeemable case of utter stupidity."       </p><p> </p><p>        Nora's head spun, and her blood came roaring and flooding into her cheeks. She knew that if her heart hadn't been preoccupied with recovering from the beats it had just skipped, it would surely have slammed itself out of her chest and onto the dirty tile between their feet. "Pickman..." she murmured fuzzily, feeling him pull her closer into his arms, and his hand caressing her cheek.</p><p> </p><p>       "Please, my dear. Call me Richard." He said quietly.</p><p> </p><p>       "Okay...<em>Richard</em>." She tasted the word as it left her lips, deciding she liked it, especially when it seemed to spark a bright flame behind his eyes. Her guess was that she was one of only a privileged few, if not the only one, allowed this information, this level of trust from him. So, she cherished it. She rested her head on his chest, enjoying the slow and steady pace of his own heart. A heart, she knew, that many didn't believe existed and if they did, wanted it served up on a silver platter with the man it belonged to chucked into an early grave filled with mole rats. It was probably what Hancock wanted, and that thought saddened her. She was convinced that he could get along with Pick—Richard if he tried looking past the obvious gore. It's what she had to do when she woke up and thawed out or else she'd remain entirely alone to this day. <em>Everyone's</em> hands were red in the new commonwealth, in one way or another. Even the most peaceful settlers had done and seen more than anyone she'd encountered before besides her veteran husband, and he rarely talked about his time at war. She felt Richard squeeze her tighter, and she relaxed, content. This felt so right, and she could stay like this forever, forgetting for a blissful moment that the war had even happened at all.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>‘You leave me breathless, weak in the knees</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I'm feeling reckless, pardon me please‘</em>
</p><p> </p><p>       Magnolia's lyrics sounded so much louder ringing in the sudden silence between them, subtly prodding them along. Nora's eyes fluttered closed, and she leaned up towards him, lips parting. Pickman felt his own body move, despite his better judgment and without his permission, dipping his head low, fully prepared to meet her halfway and capture his killer's perfect lips finally in a kiss. His sore body raged at him, lust and excitement screaming at him to hurry up. He wanted to claim her there in front of all of Goodneighbor, and be <strong>damned</strong> what anyone would have to say on the matter. He could smell the sweet wine on her breath, and feel it tickle his chin. <em>God help him,</em> <em>he <b>wanted</b> her.</em> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>‘Baby it's just—‘</em>
</p><p> </p><p>     A rough, crass voice shattered the moment like fragile glass, shocking them both back to reality. They jumped and pulled away from each other, looking for the source of the interruption.</p><p> </p><p>       "Hey, hey! Well, if it isn't my favorite popsicle, and everyone's favorite local artist; our own Monet of Massacre. What an unexpected surprise!" Hancock practically shoved himself between the couple, barely holding onto three bottles of ale. He turned his black gaze onto Pickman, a sly smile stretching his thin lips. A smile that said he knew <em>exactly</em> what he was doing. Pickman, to his credit, managed to reign in the urge to punch the shorter man, though it was a sorely tempting thought. Speaking of tempting, Nora spoke up, hands planted on her hips.</p><p> </p><p>       "Hancock! <em>What</em> are you doing here?" Pickman was pleased to note that she appeared mildly annoyed at the interruption, and her eyes kept returning to his own lips.       </p><p> </p><p>        Hancock threw an arm around her bare shoulders, hugging her close and saying "What? You're surprised when the mayor shows up at his own bar, now? C'mon, this is like my second home! Okay, maybe my third seeing as how you've fancied up that little apartment above Daisy's place. I swear <em>your</em> bed is comfier than my own. It's not fair!" he jabbed in while staring pointedly at Pickman. "Now, how about a celebratory drink for all of us? I've got the best seat in the house." He smirked at her, leading her by the shoulders to a nearby table close to Magnolia's stage. Pickman and Nora reluctantly sat, and Hancock placed the bottles in front of them. He lifted his own. "I propose a toast. To our vicious Van Gogh's recovery! Judging by your dancing skills, I'd say you're <em>almost</em> back to functional!" They clinked together their bottles and Hancock downed his in a matter of seconds. Nora and Pickman shared a look between them as they drank, neither of them missing the subtle insult that the ghoul had so delicately slipped in.</p><p> </p><p>       "Thank you for allowing me to stay in your city for as long as you have, Mayor Hancock. You and Nora have been gracious hosts." Pickman said, glossing over the insult and not allowing the ghoul to see his irritation.</p><p> </p><p>       "How have you liked Goodneighbor so far? You know we've got the finest women around, who've <em>been around</em> if you catch my drift. You could probably use some relaxation after everything you've gone through recently. If you want, I could give you the tour and introduce you to the more 'friendly' locals. A handsome guy like you? They'd just eat you up." A lascivious grin stretched across Hancock's face as he hoped inwardly that the other man would take the bait and show Nora a different side of himself. He couldn't play the perfect chivalrous gentleman all of the time. He had to slip up, he just <em>had</em> to. Either way, Hancock needed to glean information on the painter's intentions. Maybe he didn't even like women. Maybe what he had just seen, with their faces so close had been a misunderstanding. He could be gay. He could be asexual! Hancock had his fingers crossed under the table for either of the last options. It would severely help ease his worrying for his best friend and admitted crush.</p><p> </p><p>       "Again, you demonstrate the graciousness I was just mentioning, and I am enjoying Goodneighbor as much as I ever do on supply runs. It's an...<em>interesting</em> place, and I'm severely impressed with the improvements I've seen made. You outshine the 'Great Green Jewel' that is Diamond City. But, I regretfully will have to decline your offer."</p><p> </p><p>       "<em>Awww</em>, why's that? Ya shy? I promise they'll be gentle with you, especially given your current condition." Hancock grabbed another beer from a passing waitress, recently hired and who giggled and blushed prettily when he blew a kiss at her.</p><p> </p><p>       Pickman crossed his arms, leaning back in his seat and sending Hancock a leveled look before answering in an equally calm tone. "I'm not personally one for surface encounters, and that's not meant to insult you or anyone else who enjoys such things. Much like my art, I prefer my entanglements to have deep and profound meaning. It takes a lot to inspire me in that department."</p><p> </p><p>      It was Nora who responded this time, and Hancock forced down a quiet growl in his throat at how concerned she sounded. "Has...anyone caught your interest? I never bothered to ask if you were attached to anyone. I really should have, considering that your gallery was ransacked and now you're missing. Should I be returning you to someone or sending a letter or something?"</p><p>       Pickman turned his gaze onto her for a long moment, and the clear interest that instantly sparked behind it had Hancock's hand itching for his own knife so he could carve out the painter's eyes and stop him from looking at Nora in such an intimate way. Pickman finally spoke, choosing his words carefully. "I'm not attached to anyone. My work makes solitude both a blessing and a necessity. To be completely transparent, you are the only woman I spend any extended time with. The rest of my interactions are mostly to trade with people like trash can Carla, dear Ms. Daisy, and that paranoid woman in Diamond City who is still <em>extremely</em> convinced that I am a synth."</p><p> </p><p>       They all shared a chuckle and another round of drinks.</p><p> </p><p>      Nora fingered the rim of her bottle. "Hmm speaking of spending extended time together...I have some news, John, and you're not going to like it."</p><p> </p><p>     "Oh? And what might that be, pray tell?" His thoughts swirled in his head in a silent panic saying <em>'I don't like this. I don't trust this.'</em></p><p> </p><p>      "The settlements have been getting raided as of late with increased frequency. It seems the raiders caught wind that I'm tied up with something-“</p><p> </p><p>       <em>'Or someone'</em> he thought bitterly.</p><p> </p><p>        “-at the moment and are trying to strike while the General is away. Pickman isn't fully healed yet, and his home is currently looted and in shambles since the survivors came back with their buddies shortly after we left. We're going to reclaim it at some point, and we're going to build a new settlement in Hangman's Alley to try and secure Boston a bit more, and maybe get some new supply lines running to Goodneighbor. But, in the meantime I'm asking Pickman to accompany me on my missions, partially to gain his strength back, and partially so I may keep an eye on him and make sure no one takes advantage of his remaining injuries..."</p><p> </p><p>       Pickman finished, "Another contributing factor to this agreement is that I for one feel that I owe her some compensation for saving my life a second time... and as I have no worldly possessions left to give since she already has my blade, then all I have are my skills and time."</p><p> </p><p>       Hancock's vision flashed red and blurred. He had to catch himself before he leapt out of his seat and strangled the man on the spot. <em>'It would be easy, too.'</em> No one except for Nora would be able or willing to stop the mayor of Goodneighbor from dispensing justice on a serial killer, even if they didn't recognize Pickman by face alone. But, that was what stopped him; <em>Nora</em>. For whatever goddamned reason, she cared deeply about this vicious murderer. He'd seen her grieve her lost husband, her whole world including everyone and everything she knew, and then finally even her only son that had died by her own hand, a withered and amoral husk raised by the Institute and imbued with its twisted teachings, beyond redemption by the time his mother could reach him. She couldn't even bear raising the synth child that had been left behind, it hurt her so much and she had so many dangerous responsibilities to keep their little slice of the post-apocalyptic world safe for him and everyone. She'd found a loving home for him amongst a pair of friends who'd lost their own son who had settled in Sanctuary, and visited as often as she could. Whatever it cost him, he had no wish to pile pain onto the shoulders of a woman that had gone through so much. He could only remain seated and scramble for some words that wouldn't display his internal struggle.        </p><p> </p><p>        “That's...<em>greeeat</em>. Are you absolutely <em>sure</em> that this is what you want?" He asked Nora, pleading at her with his eyes.</p><p> </p><p>       Nora nodded. "It is. I gave it a lot of thought before I asked him. I know you don't trust Pickman, John, but I do. I promise I'll be safe with him."</p><p> </p><p>       Hancock gritted his teeth, silent for a long, pregnant pause. Suddenly, he snapped his fingers. "What if I tag along?  If he's really still recovering, then you could use an extra gun and pair of eyes. I know how you struggled to drag him through the entrance before Fahrenheit helped you lug him in. If that happens again in a worse location, further from a <em>doctor</em>..."</p><p> </p><p>       Nora struggled internally. On the one hand, what he said made a lot of sense, and Hancock was a fantastic partner to have along. He was the one who most often accompanied her on her traipses through the ruined world. She knew how he fought and she trusted him fully. On the other...she was very much looking forward to having Pickman alone. She doubted he'd open up and talk to her very much with someone like Hancock around. They held a thinly veiled animosity for each other that could cause problems in the field. There was no guarantee that Hancock wouldn't just let Pickman die if the opportunity arose, and while he intended no immediate harm, she wasn't convinced that Pickman wasn't of a similar mind.</p><p> </p><p>       Pickman was absolutely seething. He too saw the logic of the ghoul's suggestion, and what was pissing him off to no end was the fact that he knew without a shadow of a doubt that this was exactly why Hancock had suggested it. There was no polite way to turn him down without revealing his intentions to spend time with Nora alone. He asked Nora "You are the one in charge, what do you think?" Knowing full well that if she did want to decline, that she wouldn't be able to either.        Hancock glanced between them with a calculating expression. Nora sighed. "That's really sweet of you to offer, John. I'll take you up on that offer on two conditions."</p><p> </p><p>       He smirked, victorious. "Oh? And what might those be? If it's anything involving seducing a mirelurk then you can forget it right off the bat."</p><p> </p><p>       "<b><em>What?</em></b>"</p><p> </p><p>       "Trust me, you don't want to know."</p><p><br/>       Nora giggled. "I'm sure I don't. But, you'll have to tell me sometime anyway. My conditions are simple. A: I want you to do your best to get along with Pickman. No blowing him up or letting him get killed. Treat him like you would me or anyone else that you care about. He's a friend and I want him to stay in one piece, and preferably fully functional."</p><p> </p><p>       Hancock sighed dramatically. "You drive a hard bargain, but fine. I won't murder the murderer or let him <em>be</em> murdered."</p><p> </p><p>       Pickman scoffed and took another drink. "How very <em>kind</em> of you, Mayor."</p><p> </p><p>       "And B:" Nora continued "It can't be for longer than two weeks. The last time I kept you longer than that without a break, Fahr nearly melted my face off. She doesn't take playing proxy mayor and watching your mountain of responsibilities grow with much grace. I'd rather not go from a frozen dinner to a burnt roast."</p><p> </p><p>       Hancock chuckled. His number Two really was a handful. "Alright, it's a deal. Cheers to another lovely stroll through the commonwealth!"</p><p> </p><p>       They all clinked bottles again and drank, each stewing in their own thoughts. Nora's own mental storm consisted of the recent past, trying to pinpoint exactly when she'd started caring so much for Pickman. She could never have imagined that a simple reconnaissance mission given to her by Hancock that she'd only taken to gain his favor and some much-needed caps would have resulted in something like this...</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Recon Turned Rescue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Starting the flashbacks now of how Nora and Pickman met and how their relationship developed to the point it’s at now. These are some of my favorite chapters :).</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>       Tunnels, tunnels, nothing but endless tunnels! <em>Was this a man or a molerat?</em> Nora wondered as she sludged through the underside of the Pickman Gallery. Hancock had been pretty vague about what she'd find here, and she could see why he didn't have a good idea about this place. Who would have imagined that there was an operating art gallery in post-war Boston, <em>or</em> that its pieces were made from the mangled bodies of raiders displayed like grotesque effigies? Nora imagined that she herself might need some of Hancock's chem stash when she got back, and she had her doubts that he'd even believe this when she tried to report back.</p><p> </p><p>       She heard shouting and movement in the very last chamber at the end of the labyrinth that she had been wondering for what seemed like ages about the existence of an end for. She rushed over and crouched carefully by a crack in the wall, doing her best to muffle any sounds she made. She'd done her best to pad her gear after an unfortunate incident with a pack of roaming ferals had taught her that sprinting around clanging and rattling like a pot rack was a stupid idea.</p><p> </p><p>        Peeking through the narrow space between the ancient stones, Nora's eyes met with the scene of a small group of raiders brandishing their makeshift pipe guns at a rather good-looking man in a tailored suit. Their leader, a big lump of hair and muscle, was taunting the smaller man. "We finally got you, Pickman! Nobody kills my men and gets away with it! We're gonna gut you and display your corpse at our camp as payback for what you did to ours." He was the biggest one, and most likely the 'Slab' Nora had heard other raiders in the house mention as their boss. He yanked out a rusted machete and proceeded to advance toward Pickman, who simply stood relaxed with a small smile playing across his lips.</p><p>        "By all means, you're welcome to try. I could always use spare parts for my work, and that's all you raiders are comprised of as it is." He remained with his arms by his sides as the group rushed him.</p><p> </p><p>       "Shit!!" Nora scrambled to her feet and booked it for the doorway. She wasn't going to just sit by while raiders killed yet another person. When she reached the doorway, she aimed at the nearest raider and— '<em>click!!</em>' "...<strong>fuck</strong>...!" Nora cursed, tossing her empty gun aside. She'd been running low on ammo this trip, having trekked through a much more active than usual Boston. It always seemed like this area was relatively subdued, aside from the occasional group of mangled corpses. Any of the dead raiders usually sported this 'Pickman's calling card. His absence clearly had a fast and negative impact on the safety of the city ruins. Nora had worked hard to secure routes between Diamond City and Goodneighbor for supplies, as well as any others she could. She did not want more work added to her plate. Remembering she had it, she yanked a flimsy switchblade from her belt and leapt, falling on the raider she'd been aiming at with a feral scream and jamming it into their exposed neck. Nora thanked Nate for his lessons in anatomy and taking down larger opponents, because the blade struck true, severing an artery and unleashing a fountain of blood that hit the wall and Nora, who lost her grip and slipped off, thankfully taking her knife with her. The raider howled and clutched their neck, but the wound was too severe and they collapsed, narrowly avoiding pinning Nora, who rolled out of the way and righted herself.</p><p> </p><p>       She swung her head around, searching for Pickman, and found him fending off three of the other raiders fairly well for someone who was unarmed. He grabbed one of them and swung the man around by the throat, allowing him to be pumped full of whizzing bullets meant for his own body. The raiders screamed with rage, and he merely smirked, grabbing the dead man by his belt and collar and hurling him at the survivors with impressive strength.</p><p> </p><p>       "I'm sorry, this seems to belong to you!" Their friend's body knocked the other two from their feet and they lost their holds on their pipe guns, which clattered off into the dark. Nora made to help him but was stopped by their leader slamming his hand into the column next to her head, towering over her and growling</p><p>      <br/>       "You little bitch! Who would've thought <em>Pickman</em> had any friends? Well, it doesn't matter because you're both going to die for slaughtering my crew!" He struck her across the face, knocking her into the wall. She felt her lip split, and her head hit the concrete, blurring her vision. She lifted her knife only to find the blade had snapped off in her victim's neck.</p><p> </p><p>        "Owch..." She winced, jumping up quickly as 'Slab' advanced toward her, brandishing his much larger weapon. Nora fought hard to remember Nate's lessons as he charged her. She pivoted on her foot as Slab charged her, sticking her foot out to trip him and at the same time grabbing his weapon hand and twisting the wrist roughly while shoving him down with the other hand. The heavier man went down in his surprise, but to Nora's horror, she couldn't release his hold on the machete. She jumped away again as he slashed at her while on one knee. He jerked up and rushed her again, this time catching her off guard. <em>He could really move for a big guy!</em> Nora found herself pinned by the throat against a column, tearing into his meaty hand with her nails while it held her suspended. No matter how much blood she drew, he never loosened his grip on her.</p><p> </p><p>       He chuckled darkly. "Yeah, that's what you get you dumb cunt! What did I say? You're gonna <strong>pay</strong>!" He lifted the machete to stab her through the abdomen, and Nora panicked. <em>She still had a son to find out there!</em> She couldn't go out like this. Maternal rage must have given her an adrenaline boost, because she managed to swing her legs up and around Slab's arm, twisting and squeezing with all her might. She heard the blessed popping of his elbow joint being dislocated. Slab screamed and dropped her, and she took the opportunity to once again grab for the machete. This time it slipped easily from his fingers. She reared back and kicked with everything she had, launching her boot squarely into his solar plexus. As he staggered, sputtering and coughing, she struck, bringing down the machete again and again into his neck. Blood splattered the floor and drenched what little of her clothes hadn't been soaked before as she hacked away. Primal fear and instinct had taken hold, tunneling her vision and making her forget all else. She wouldn't be convinced that this monster was down until his head left his body. And, it did after several more swings.</p><p> </p><p>       It was only when Slab's head rolled away from his torso, and a firm hand caught her wrist that she stopped. At first, she panicked, assuming it was another raider. She swung her fist around and instead had her other hand caught by none other than Pickman. Her breath caught and she remembered why she was here, then began searching the room for the other two raiders he had been fighting. Their corpses lay on top of each other a bit behind Pickman, who dropped her hand and touched her cheek gently. She looked back at him, and found silvery eyes staring into her own green. For some reason, his gaze calmed her. He looked at her with such understanding. She allowed him to help her to her feet, though she retained the machete. She wasn't far enough gone to allow herself to be disarmed by a serial killer in his basement lair. </p><p> </p><p>        "<b><em>Are you alright?</em></b>" Both started a bit as the question left each of them at once.</p><p> </p><p>       "Ladies first." He bowed slightly, that coy and knowing smirk back on his face.</p><p> </p><p>       Nora took a moment to collect herself, pulling strands of wet hair away from her face. "I...think so. Nothing's broken, and I'm not <em>dead</em>, yet. So, I'd call this a win." She looked him over for wounds or signs of distress. "What about you? You took on all these raiders unarmed. Where are you hurt? I have stimpaks if you need one..."</p><p> </p><p>       Pickman shook his head, raising his hands. "I am just fine. I must thank you for your assistance however. And now your kind offer to share precious resources with a stranger."</p><p> </p><p>       "It's fine, really. It wouldn't do to save you and then have you bleed out on me. How did they find you? This place is so tucked away even I had a bit of trouble getting to the entrance. If two of these guys hadn't been jabbering loudly outside and mentioned your name, I might have walked by entirely and been too late." </p><p>       <br/>        The smirk widened. "Let us be thankful for the loud and obnoxious nature of your average raider then. As I said, you must be rewarded." </p><p> </p><p>       "They were very <em>determined</em> to kill you." She ignored his suggestion, partially for fear of what a reward from a serial killer would be. </p><p> </p><p>       He shrugged, patting his jacket pockets. "A small disagreement. They objected to my hobby of collecting their heads. A hobby that you at least inadvertently share now." He nudged Slab's head with his dress shoe. "Ah! Here we are." He pulled a key on a Vault-Boy keychain from his suit and held it out for her. </p><p> </p><p>          "What is this?" She eyed his outstretched hand suspiciously. </p><p> </p><p>        "A gift," he answered, laughter in his tone. "Nothing nefarious, I promise you. I only hope it will be suitable repayment for your assistance. I'm certain after what I've seen today that it will serve you well."</p><p> </p><p>       "It's not a severed head is it?" She made a face. At this, Pickman broke out into real laughter. It was a nice sound, surprisingly infectious. Nora, realizing the humor in her words and his reaction, joined him. </p><p>      "No heads, I promise. Merely a small piece of me to remember me by."</p><p>       Nora wiped a tear from her eye after she regained her own composure. "I'm sorry to say that your choice of words there does nothing to lesson my apprehension." Pickman took her hand in his and pressed the key to her palm, turning it over and kissing the top gallantly before releasing it back to her side. Nora blanched. He merely smiled serenely at her and turned to head deeper into his tunnels. "Give it a moment before you do, but I'd like you to look deep into my painting 'A Picnic For Stanley'. There you will find my <em>gratitude</em>." He stepped through the exit that she knew would lead him back to his gallery upstairs. He turned to look over his shoulder, his silver eyes glinting in the dim light and expression unreadable. "See you around, <em>killer</em>."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. That Strange Angel</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>        Pickman made his way as quickly as he could to his gallery. His heart was pounding, a feeling he had all but forgotten since his earliest days. It was hard to tell if it was from his recent brush with death, or with the mysterious vault-dweller. He knew that was what she was, after all he did recognize her from the streets of Boston. From the brief bits of dialogue that managed to drift over to him from between her and her companions, he had gathered that much, and her name, <em>Nora</em>. He had never in his wildest dreams imagined anyone in the commonwealth coming to his aid. He preferred his solitude, or so he told himself, and so companions and friends never fit into his lifestyle, his world. And, no one in this selfish world would ever leap in to help an outnumbered stranger without at least a hope of some sort of benefit.</p><p> </p><p>        And yet, she had and without any hesitation or expectation of reward for her efforts, which had been mighty. He simply had to find out more about her. What sort of <em>paradise</em> were the vaults that one could produce such a pure soul? He stopped by a cracked mirror once he was upstairs and grimaced at his own appearance. He tugged his jacket back into position, tightened his tie, and smoothed the stray hairs that had pulled loose from his slicked ponytail. Then, he grabbed an ancient pen and fragile scrap of paper, scribbling out a hasty note that he then signed extra carefully with a bloody heart, wrapping it around the worn handle of his favorite knife before placing it within a safe behind the painting he'd directed his savior to. He had just eased the canvas back onto its hook when her faint, cautious footsteps reached his ears. He hid himself in the shadows around the corner and waited.</p><p> </p><p>        Nora took her time perusing the halls, now that she knew almost certainly that Pickman meant her no harm, at least for the time being, she decided to get a better look at his 'gallery'. She decided that he wasn't an unskilled painter. He really was adept at capturing human emotions, horrid though the ones he chose to represent were. She wondered, had he ever tried to capture happiness or love? Was he even familiar with those softer emotions at all? The imagery also offered a fascinating glimpse into grand and mad visions, and she wondered just how much of this was the landscape of the murderer's own mind. She traced the pale frame of one particular such scene. Six blackened hands like burned branches stretched out their clawed digits up from the flames surrounding them toward a yellow eye floating above them in a crimson sky. It seemed to peer coldly down at them, utterly indifferent and even in silent judgement to their suffering. Like a God looking down on those he had damned to the pits, it was filled with emotion and purpose in every stroke, and Nora couldn't help but to marvel it. "I almost wish I could take <em>this</em> one home with me... it's <em><strong>amazing</strong></em>..." she mused to herself out loud, thinking as she noticed rings of symbols encircling the eye that she would love to take this back to study sometime, provided her stash of books on the occult and symbology were intact below her bedroom floor in Sanctuary, and unaware that her praise had been heard and sent a surge of that elation, that elusive emotion called happiness she just before questioned him capable of through the artist himself, mere feet away from her.</p><p> </p><p>        At long last she found the painting that Pickman had bade her to stare <em>'deeply into</em>', and after a few moments of inspection, she found the safe behind, and set the frame against the peeling wallpaper, with such great care it made Pickman feel a fresh wave of gratitude. Most people would run screaming or try to burn his art, and him along with it. Yet here this stranger was again, giving his creations a level of respect that only he had. She'd even picked a favorite amongst his works, where as others had barely given them a glance, too fixated and horrified by his sculptures to really care for his canvases. He saw only her toned back as she fidgeted with the lock, stepping back and swinging the hefty safe door open after the satisfying click of its unlocking had pierced the quiet. "Huh..." She grabbed and pocketed the contents until she got to the note folded around his blade. She picked it up gingerly and leaned against the wall next to 'A Picnic For Stanley' to read it. Her lips silently mimed the written words, and he watched, utterly enraptured as she traced over the heart with a pale finger, bemused. A soft chuckle floated through the dusty air, and turned the way she was, Pickman could make out a gentle smile quirking you the tips of her lips. "Why leave flowers when you can give a lady a knife? And they say chivalry is dead." She joked to herself, pocketing his blade and folding his note carefully before tucking it with care into her jumpsuit. She gently picked his work back up and set it gingerly on its hook, taking a few moments to straighten it. Satisfied, she headed for the front door. "Thank you for the gifts, Pickman!" She called out, waving to what she assumed was an empty room, as casually as if she were leaving a friend's house.</p><p> </p><p>       She made her exit, and only when he was sure she had gone did Pickman venture from the darkness that had hidden him. His steps were wobbly, and it wasn't due to his adrenaline from the fight. A sweet, alluring scent hung in the air, barely but still traceable over the stench of death. It was old world perfume, a rare and precious treasure in the aftermath of the war. It had to be Nora's, and the reason he didn't notice before in the underground must have been the overpowering smell of fetid water everywhere, even more permeating than the odor his art left. He leaned against the same wall she had, utterly dumbstruck. He'd never met anyone like her before. It had to have been a decade since someone who knew his identity had treated him with such normalcy, and never had anyone gone to the lengths she had to be <em>kind</em>. And yet, he'd also seen the utter brutality she was capable of when cornered. She'd shown no such mercies to the raiders. She hadn't hesitated to land a single blow. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>       ‘Kindness without weakness, what a<strong> concept!‘</strong></em>
</p><p> </p><p>       He stayed there for an untold number of moments, until his eyes drifted over to the painting she had admired the most. Something clicked, and he nodded to himself, pushing himself off the wall. Hastily, yet meticulously, he set about gathering his things, dumping them into a pack he'd stored under his bed. He took what art supplies he could for the road, including his small collection of priceless blank sketchbooks, which had been incredibly difficult to find and the ones he had purchased set him back a decent chunk in caps. "I must leave you for now..." he murmured to the walls, to the lifeless eyes of his victims. "There are things I must see to, and a new spectrum of human emotion that I feel I <em>must</em> study. And, someone like her may have no need of my silent protection, but I will give it to her nonetheless. I feel my debt is not yet repaid..."</p><p> </p><p>       Having tugged the last of the straps holding his pack on into place, he faced the painting once more. With one swift movement, he hefted it from its hook and tucked it neatly under his arm. If Nora, that strange angel, had wanted to take this piece with her, then he would find a proper time to gift it to her. What artist in his right mind would deny someone a piece that had touched their soul? If it had spoken to her, then so be it. He gave one last glance around his studio, his unconventional home, before stepping after his killer into the night, locking the door behind him with a set of keys he kept on him. It was time for a new sort of adventure...</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Frozen In Time</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Just a friendly lunch with the local serial killer, what could go wrong? &lt;3</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>(-a week later-)</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>‘Come and find me, killer. If you dare.'</em>
</p><p> </p><p>       To anyone else who didn't know about Nora's accidental nickname the note she'd just picked off a corpse would read as a challenge to any living raiders and a threat. But, Nora knew better. That painter was inviting her to come talk to him. Who could say why? Maybe they intrigued each other. Nora was quite used to people's curiosity, being both a vault-dweller and having been frozen for over 200 years. She was also certainly curious about him. Any sane person would run away screaming and find a safe place to hide until he lost interest. Having a predator's gaze upon you was a certain death sentence...except... it didn't feel that way to Nora. Maybe it was his well-mannered speech and groomed appearance, and maybe it was because the only corpses she'd seen in his gallery were raiders, but she didn't think he would harm her. He wasn't <em>unhinged</em>...he was focused and driven to a singular goal, one that just so happened to be rather horrific. Therefore, it was safe enough in her mind to indulge her desire to pick more at this 'Pickman's brain and to find out what made him tick in his own unorthodox rhythm. There was more text at the bottom, underneath the smeared bloody heart that he always signed with. It read <em>'Find me at the place where time stands still. We'll speak and drink and eat our fill.'</em></p><p> </p><p>       So, he wanted to have lunch then? That seemed so...<em>normal</em>. But, what was a place where time stood still? That seemed like an awful lot of Boston these days. It couldn't be anywhere that the raiders or mutants or even ferals had settled. That would be disturbed ground, and nothing was still about giant hounds, radioactive zombies, and whirring turrets. It had to be somewhere secluded where no one had set foot in a long time, somewhere preserved. He also probably knew that she was familiar with the area. A man like that missed nothing, and if he had been stalking the streets while she'd been walking the streets, then he was very aware of her presence from long before she'd stepped foot over his threshold, and maybe had overhead things about her from her conversations with her friends and followers. She knew this city and its layout, both before and after the war. She pondered his meaning while munching on a mutfruit she'd pulled out of her pack. Maybe some extra mentats would help her puzzle this out as well, but she refrained in the end. It wouldn't do to waste a finite supply; they were reserved mainly for desperate situations where she needed to find a solution quickly, and for building certain parts of settlements. An extra boost of intelligence was a huge boon when trying to scrape together structures from rickety old materials if you wanted any hope of them surviving the weather or worse.</p><p> </p><p>        She jiggled her leg while she wandered the empty roads in her mind, mentally mapping out and crossing off locations. The library? No. The hospital? Book store? Bakery? No, it couldn't be any of those. <em>'Where time stands still.'</em> The words danced in her mind, teasing her. There was some hidden meaning to it, she just knew. Anyone would think to search abandoned places from that description. <strong><em>Oh!</em> </strong>It hit her suddenly, mid-chew. He must have meant the old antique clock shop, Frozen in Time! It was as good a guess as any, and it was a 5 minute walk, so Nora chucked away the core of her fruit and set off in that direction. She expected to encounter some resistance, but not even a mutated mutt was to be found on her path. Well, not alive anyway. It seemed Pickman had laid out a literal red carpet for her in the best way he knew how: blood.<br/><br/></p><p>        When she finally called trudged over the last hill of debris between her and the old shop, ancient memories nudged at the back of her mind. Nate's grandmother had once given them a beautiful cuckoo clock made in Germany. She had been a lovely woman with a house stuffed to the rafters with antiques and things she'd collected from around the world. The clock had needed a tune-up, so she and her husband had made the drive here.</p><p> </p><p>       The elderly couple who ran the place were utter sweethearts who had owned this shop most of their lives, and Nora had been pregnant at the time of her visit. Overjoyed by this, and with her own children and grandchildren grown and growing, Mrs. Pennington, the horologist's, the <em>clockmaker's</em> wife had given Nora a beautiful peridot necklace that matched her eyes. It had been in their house when the bombs had fallen, and she held onto no hope that she'd ever see it again. There was no time as it was. The only reason that she was taking this current detour was that all leads on Shaun had run cold until she could locate a Courser, and she knew damn well she wasn't strong enough <em>yet</em> to chase their signal. It would be a death sentence until she gained more experience in the Commonwealth, and she was sure her son was at least safe. The Institute wouldn't have gone through all the trouble of taking him and letting him grow up if they just wanted to kill him. She also figured, what better way to get a leg up than gleaning more information from and about the friendly neighborhood serial killer? At the very least, he'd make a useful ally, and she'd rather have him as that than a dangerous enemy.</p><p> </p><p>     She knocked on the peeling door, feeling foolish immediately. Apparently, her pre-war manners simply refused to die no matter how long she spent in this crude new world.</p><p> </p><p>       "<em>Do</em> come in." The smooth voice of Pickman answered. So, she had guessed right after all. Nora tentatively pushed open the door with some effort. It was stuck with age and the wood had swelled. When it finally swung open enough for her to stumble through, the old bell that would have alerted the elderly horologist of a new customer still tinkled merrily. Nora caught herself and shut the door behind her, then straightened and turned around, hand on the hilt of the knife Pickman had given her as a parting gift for saving his life. The only sound she could hear aside from her own breathing was one that surprised her mightily. Several of the ancient clocks on the walls were <em>still ticking!</em></p><p> </p><p>        They looked like they'd been recently repaired, even, for they lacked the heavy coating of dust of their neighbors. With a start, she recognized Nate's grandparents' as one of the ones that had been apparently serviced. Forgetting her caution, she walked up to it in a daze, taking in the warm glow of the freshly polished wood. Of all things, <em>this</em> had survived the bombs. A <em>clock</em>. A clock belonging to a woman lost in time, and a man who had run out of it early. She chuckled softly, brushing the elegantly carved leaves with her fingers, noting how dirty and broken her nails were in comparison to the last time she'd seen them skim this surface. It felt perverse and wrong, twisted and surreal.</p><p> </p><p>       She didn't notice the presence beside her until a silky tone purred close to her ear. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say that you <em>recognize</em> this piece."</p><p> </p><p>       Still caught up in her thoughts, Nora didn't think about the words that slipped out. "It was my husband's grandparents'. It hung in their house until our wedding...they gave it to us as a gift. We brought it here for a tune-up a few times, and for cleaning. I never thought I'd see it again. It was in for repairs when...the bombs..." She stopped short and shook her head to clear it, scattering friendly smiles and familiar faces before they could make her cry again. She didn't need this now. When she came back to her senses, she flinched away from Pickman's close proximity. He had been well within stabbing reach, and she chastised herself inwardly for dropping her guard so foolishly in front of him of <em>all</em> people. Still, he hadn't taken advantage of it. And why would he invite her all the way out here if his goal was to kill her?</p><p> </p><p>      Pickman didn't seem to be offended, and stepped back himself to give her space. Her words had peaked his curiosity even further. He had indeed seen her many times, wandering the desolate streets of Boston with a varying array of companions, most notably Nick Valentine the synth detective of Diamond City, and Mayor Hancock from Goodneighbor. He had overheard snippets of conversations between them and noticed that Nora spoke often with nostalgia and seemed too familiar with the city streets for someone whom her companions had referred to as 'fresh out of the Vault.'</p><p> </p><p>       "I apologize for startling you." He said. "I am glad you accepted my invitation. Tell me, are you hungry?" He held out his arm in gesture to the door behind the counter that Nora knew lead to the Pennington's personal upstairs apartment. She followed his lead closely, keeping her eyes on him at all times.        </p><p> </p><p>       "I am, actually. All I've had today is a piece of fruit a bit past its prime."</p><p> </p><p>       He clucked his tongue at her while steering them toward the kitchen. "Well, that just won't do at all." It was relatively clean for a place that had been so heavily affected by the bombs and Pickman had gone out of his way to set up a delicious-looking meal of unknown meat (Maybe Radstag?) and cooked vegetables with salt. There was also a pile of fancylad snack cakes (her favorite!) stacked neatly on a plate. As far as postwar meals went, this was a feast. And, to add to the ambiance there was even a candle burning merrily in a cracked bowl in the center.</p><p> </p><p>        Her mouth watering, Nora plopped down in the chair he pulled out for her, which creaked in protest of having weight put on it for the first time in centuries. She plucked up one of the cakes, thanking him happily. The aged frosting had just touched her lips when a terrible thought occurred. Yes, Pickman seemed to have no intentions of killing her, but <em>drugging</em> her in an isolated location to do God knows what was an entirely different possibility.</p><p> </p><p>        Seemingly aware of her mounting fears, Pickman merely smirked at her, gently taking the very cake she had picked out and popping it into his own mouth, holding his hands out as if to say <em>'See? No danger here.</em>' When he finished chewing and swallowed, he confirmed</p><p> </p><p>       "There is nothing to worry about, Nora. I am merely trying to be a good host. It's been ages since I had any visitors that weren't after my head, or vice versa. I haven't had an opportunity for pleasant conversation, which is all I'm after, I promise. You have my word."</p><p> </p><p>        Nora relaxed, taking another cake and nibbling at it, savoring the rich sugary taste and the way that the frosting still melted on her tongue after all this time. These had been her go-to snack while pregnant, and they held a soft spot in her heart ever since. Pickman ate quietly across from her, his eyes never leaving her, tracing every action with intense focus that kept her a little on edge despite what he'd said. She had moved on to the meat, which had been cooked to perfection and even lightly seasoned, when another thought occurred to her and her head shot up, eyes full of fire.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>       "How do you know my name?"</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. The Physiology of Fear</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>       Pickman cut another piece from his steak, pinning it with his fork. He took his time answering her, and when he did he seemed unconcerned with her ire.</p><p> </p><p>       "Come now, dear. When you so gallantly came to my rescue, it was far from the first time I've seen you. After all, we wander the same streets more often than not, and this city's old walls have an echo. I pick up little tidbits here and there. I also know that you're from a vault, through I'm not sure which number. I've never seen you in the telltale blue and gold suit, but it wasn't hard to piece together listening to your companions. You also seem <em>awfully</em> familiar with the world before the blasts, almost like a ghoul though you bear no resemblance to them. You're a curious creature."</p><p> </p><p>        Nora relaxed back into her seat. "Yeah I could say the same thing about you... why did you fix those old clocks?"</p><p> </p><p>       "I'm an artist, and one part of being an artist is preserving things that I find beautiful."</p><p><br/>        Nora raised an eyebrow at him, smiling wryly. "Mmm, you must have an unconventional definition of beauty then. I've seen your paintings... and your sculptures."</p><p> </p><p>       His eyes swept over her, and Nora felt her gut squirm, butterflies fluttering to life within her and flapping manically about. She blamed it on the mildly irradiated food.</p><p> </p><p>       "That is true, but there is so much more than just beauty in art. I've made it a sort of life's work to bring to life the very parts of it we tend to shy away from as humans, the horrifying and the 'ugly', for how can we truly appreciate beauty if we have nothing to compare it to? I also find that the last moments of a person's life bring to light a stark truth, a genuineness not seen in any other moment of their existence. I'm intimately familiar with the actual anatomy of terror and the physiology of fear. I've practiced until my fingers bled the exact sort of lines and proportions that connect up with latent instincts or hereditary memories of fright, and the proper color contrasts and lighting effects to stir the dormant sense of strangeness." He noticed her tilted head, but she didn't recoil disgust as he'd expected. Instead, she chewed on her bottom lip absentmindedly, her focus entirely on his words even as she reached for another cake. She didn't seem repulsed by him or his art, merely <em>curious</em>.</p><p> </p><p>      "That's a fine way of looking at it, I think. Artists aren't supposed to just copy down pretty sunsets and stiff portraits. They're meant to peel back the layers and show us the world through their eyes, oftentimes revealing deeper truths and ideas, perspectives that we never considered or could see before, even when they were right in front of us." He blinked, mightily surprised, then decided he liked that. No captive audience to his musings but a willing participant in discussion who was on the same level as he. She truly was a breath of fresh air. "I think...that there is a beauty in your art. Your sincerity and earnest shines through in every stroke. Every canvas is a tiny window into your mind, and though it's definitely a dark place, it is undeniably a fascinating one."</p><p> </p><p>       He opened a bottle of wine, pouring them each a glass. "Is that why you decided to show today? Fascination?"</p><p> </p><p>       Nora tilted her head from side to side, considering her response, then sipped her glass slowly, the rich red liquid staining her lips. "Hmm, yeah that's a good way of putting it. You're not like anyone I've met here so far. You're mysterious but direct. I don't know precisely what motives drive you, or your inner thoughts, but I never sense an ulterior motive with you. You're honest, for better or for worse, and that's a trait that was rare enough before the bombs fell."</p><p> </p><p>       This piqued his interest. Here she was again, looking no older than her mid twenties yet talking about a world that was centuries gone. "There it is again!" He gestured with his own glass before downing a good portion. "<em>There</em>, you speak, and move about these streets like you knew them from before. As though their devastation is still a shock to you, when for the rest of us it's simply an everyday normality." He narrowed his eyes, the steel slicing into her, peeling back her defenses and probing for anything she'd attempt to hide. "And what you said about that clock up front... what are you?"</p><p> </p><p>       Nora blew out a breath, and the flames of the candle between them fidgeted angrily at the disturbance. "I'm just...a woman out of time. A housewife, a lawyer, and a mother. I've spent the last 210 years in a cryogenic sleep. I only woke up a little while ago..."</p><p> </p><p>        She proceeded to weave him a tale that would have been unbelievable to others, and perhaps even him, if he couldn't sense the genuine sincerity behind her every word. Her eyes misted up as she recalled the death of her husband and the kidnapping of their only child. Here was a good mother, doing everything she could to protect her son. It reminded him of...</p><p> </p><p>       "Do you have any leads?"</p><p> </p><p>        She huffed, leaning back in her chair. The old metal and plastic creaked. "I've hit a dead end. I know how to get into the Institute but in order to do so... I need to find and kill a Courser."</p><p> </p><p>       Pickman nearly lost his composure, and almost spit out his drink. Instead he choked on it a little, clearing his throat. "I beg pardon?! Did you just say you're hunting a <strong><em>Courser?</em></strong>"</p><p> </p><p>       Nora grimaced. "See, that response doesn't help my confidence in the matter. I don't have a choice. I need the chip in one of their heads to teleport into the Institute, and hopefully find my child."</p><p> </p><p>       "That...sounds <em>incredibly</em> dangerous. You plan to do this <em>alone</em>?" He leaned over his plate, regarding her with what looked like a silent respect, mixed with concern.<br/><br/></p><p>        She shrugged. "I don't have a choice. I'm not willing to put anyone else in that amount of danger for a personal mission."</p><p> </p><p>       "You won't make it out alive! Nora, you—"</p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>Wham!</em> </b>
</p><p> </p><p>       Both of them jumped up, Pickman grabbing a steak knife and Nora gripping her small but efficiently upgraded 10mm. The startling sound had been something heavy slamming itself against the cellar door to their left. The ancient wood strained and splintered, scattering paint chips across the floor and their feet. Horrible growling and gargles reaches their ears, and the couple exchanged a concerned look before Nora nodded to Pickman and they both began advancing towards the shuddering door, taking positions on either side. The unknown creature repeated its assault. After two more tries, <em>two</em> ferals came crashing into the room, knocking into the table and smacking into the opposing wall.</p><p> </p><p>       "<em>Ferals?!</em>" Nora squeaked, her entire body trembling and her eyes wide with terror. Pickman peered at her curiously, already ready to strike. He'd never seen his killer like this before. She was always so fearless even in the face of super mutant suiciders... why was <em>this</em> different? Ferals were unruly and chaotic in a fight but stupid and generally not as much of a threat unless in large numbers. Why was she so afraid?</p><p> </p><p>       The ghouls righted themselves, shoving one another and snapping their rotted teeth at each other for getting in the way with what limited cognition they had left. They spotted Nora first, and as they charged her, to Pickman's horror, she didn't move. She stood there, white as a sheet.</p><p> </p><p>        "<strong><em>Nora!!</em></strong>" He yelled, kicking the nearest ghoul in the legs and drawing their attention away from her. It worked for one of them, what looked like a male, and the putrid creature crouched and launched its misshapen body at Pickman, who easily sidestepped and slashed with his blade, spilling the creature's irradiated guts. This wasn't enough to fully stop it, however. It fell to the ground in a heap of rags, but still dug its overgrown nails into the dusty floor panels, scraping and crawling its way towards him. Drool pooled in its mouth and left a slimy trail behind it. Pickman spied a heavy vase on a nearby side bar and grabbed it, jamming it down onto the feral's balding head. An unearthly howl tore from its lips as Pickman shattered the pottery over its skull. It was enough to briefly stun it, and he took the opportunity to slip his blade into the back of its neck. This severed the nervous system and the body finally went limp. Pickman sighed in relief, but his head jerked up as the sounds of Nora's struggle sank in.</p><p> </p><p>       The other ghoul, a female in a tattered flowery dress, had fallen on Nora, who was trying with all of her strength to hold it off. "Stop! <strong>Please!</strong> It's <em>me</em>, it's Nora!" She was sobbing. She had a loaded gun and was at point blank range, yet she wouldn't take the shot. He was baffled. She hadn't hesitated back in his gallery, even when she'd been out of ammo. Why was she acting like this? There would be no use getting answers from a corpse, and it would be bad manners to let someone die who had saved his life, so Pickman took advantage of the ghoul's fixation and repeated the gesture he'd used on the other. It was the cleanest, least cruel way to kill. Nora shoved the body off of her, scooting away on her rear and crying even harder. The sound broke Pickman's heart.</p><p> </p><p>       Coming around to her side, Pickman offered her his hand to pull her to her feet. She grasped it and let him haul her up, but as soon as she was standing she dove into his arms, her wet cheeks leaving dark tear marks on his suit.</p><p> </p><p>       His heart skipped a few beats. How long had it been since someone had embraced him like this? Had they ever? Had anyone <em>ever</em> sought <em>solace</em> in his touch? Once the initial, if massive, shock had worn off enough to allow his motor functions to return, he wrapped his arms around her, squeezing her trembling body against him. It felt so alien and yet so right. She fit against him perfectly, being just the right height to allow her to tuck her head under his chin and bury her face in his chest.       </p><p> </p><p>       "Nora" he began gently, rubbing her back comfortingly, more out of instinct than practice. "What is going on? I have never seen that sort of reaction from you...are you alright?"</p><p> </p><p>         <br/>        "Mrs. Pennington...oh God, it was <em>Mrs. Pennington!</em> Why, God, why is this happening?!" Her entire body was wracked with grief, and Pickman led her away from the bodies and to the living room, easing her down onto the dilapidated couch.<br/><br/></p><p>       He sat next to her and allowed her to embrace him once more. She pulled her feet up onto the cushions and leaned on him, sniffling. When she'd regained her senses she tried to draw back but he shushed her, telling her it was perfectly fine.</p><p> </p><p>       "I may not be used to offering comfort but that doesn't mean I'm averse to it, particularly since you're the one who made sure that I'm still here in one piece to even be able to offer it in the first place." He offered her a handkerchief from his coat pocket, which she took with a thanks and dried her eyes.</p><p> </p><p>       "Thanks, Pickman. I'm sorry I reacted that way. I put you in danger and you had to save my ass. I'm so sorry."</p><p> </p><p>       "It's alright, but who is Mrs. Pennington?"        Pain flashed across her face, twisting her pretty features into a mask of agony that wrenched his heart. "She is...<em>was</em> the wife of the owner of this store. The man there...that's her husband, Mr. Pennington..."</p><p> </p><p>       "So, what you said about that clock I repaired upstairs..."</p><p> </p><p>      She gave a watery smile. "That's right... it was passed down to us from Nate's side of the family. Nate was my husband. <em>God</em>, I can't believe how little time has passed since he... it feels like just yesterday..."</p><p> </p><p>       They sat there in silence for a few moments, Pickman not knowing what words to offer this woman he'd just met, who he was holding in his arms. His heart was hammering in a way he was unaccustomed to. This wasn't the rush of adrenaline he experienced in the high that took him while he worked on his art, perfecting his craft. This was some other beast, and it was a <em><strong>hungry</strong></em> one. He only wished he knew what it wanted so he could silence the deafening inner roar, and stop his blood from hammering his veins to the point of discomfort.</p><p> </p><p>       Nora leaned forward and put her head in her hands, peering with hollow eyes at the heap of rotted flesh that was the dead ghoul couple. "There's just one thing I <em>don't</em> understand..."</p><p> </p><p>       "Hmm?" He quirked an eyebrow, following her gaze.</p><p> </p><p>       She sat up straight and turned her eyes back to him. "How did you not notice that they were here before? Why weren't they pounding down that door the second you arrived here?"       </p><p> </p><p>       Pickman rose to his feet, pulling her up with him when she held out her hand. She returned his handkerchief to him with a soft thanks. He mulled over her words.</p><p> </p><p>        "That...is a <b><em>damn</em></b> good question, killer." He pulled out his blade and stepped over the bodies to the shattered door, the scraps of which wavered pathetically on the rusted hinges whose squeaks sounded a lot like lamentation for their current state. "<em>Shall we find out?</em>" He asked, and she nodded, readying her favorite shotgun.</p><p> </p><p>       Together, the woman out of time and the notorious serial killer set off down the shadowed steps into the cellar...</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Sad Ghosts</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">        The stairs creaked and groaned as the mismatched pair made their way down. Nora winced, slowing her steps even more. She wanted to make as little noise as possible on the off chance that any more ferals were lurking below. So far, she didn’t hear any shuffling or extra movement, but that didn’t mean they were safe. Oftentimes feral ghouls would be lying prone on the ground, either resting or waiting she could never tell, until they were disturbed. With her focus entirely on her hearing, she didn’t realize she stepped on a soft, rotted plank until it gave way beneath her weight.</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">
    <b>
      <em>Crack!!!</em>
    </b>
  </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">With a shrill cry, she stumbled forward, beginning to topple down the flight towards the unforgiving poured concrete floor far below that they could dimly make out from the light of her pip boy.<em> ‘Fuck!’</em> She thought <em>‘This is going to <b>hurt!</b>’</em> Instead, she felt a strong arm snake around her waist. Pickman caught her with a grunt, holding back from toppling along with her by grasping the railing next to them. He held his knife in his teeth so as not to accidentally stab her. When he’d pulled her back up and she’d gotten her feet again, she thanked him.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“<em>Whew!</em> Thank you, Pickman. I really thought I was about to break something there...well, besides the stairs. At least now we know nothing else is waiting for us. That wasn’t exactly quiet.” She blushed, embarrassed about losing her composure yet again in front of this man, and because the lingering feel of his arm wrapped around her waist made her pulse skitter. ‘<em>It’s just been a while, that’s all. Every human craves touch and I was used to having a handsy husband around who liked to put his arm around my waist; I shouldn’t overthink it.’</em></span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“It’s no trouble. We should take more care on the rest of these steps, though. It seems their integrity is questionable at best. I’m not sure how that couple managed to not fall through them themselves with how...<em>animated</em> they were.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">She nodded and they continued their descent. Once they reached the bottom, Nora let out a sigh of relief. Looking around, it seemed like your average cellar with busted shelving still struggling to hold centuries’ old preserves, but thankfully no new enemies. Nora even found an intact jar of honey, and pocketed it gratefully, planning to bake some razorgrain bread when she got back to Goodneighbor to spread it on. She might bring some for Pickman if she figured out where to find him, since he’d already fed her. He was was similarly scouring the area, with a puzzled look on his bearded face, running a hand over his hair.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“This makes no sense to me. This is such a small space, they would have heard me walking around, working and cooking long before you arrived. I’ve been here for days... What took them so long to make their presence known? They would have been bashing away almost immediately...” He felt along the shadowed stone walls, searching for something, anything they’d missed.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“Oh wow...<em>look over here!</em>” Nora called him over, her hands shaking. In the far corner, half tucked behind a rusted shelf, was a doorway. Not just any doorway, but a mini nuclear shelter built right into the cellar. The door, which must have been half a foot thick, was slammed against the wall, bearing a sickening sight. Multiple dents from the ghouls throwing themselves at it peppered the surface, as well as dozens of long claw marks, embossed in fresh blood with a few fingernails still clinging to some of them. Nora rushed away from Pickman to a far corner, and proceeded to wretch there, emptying her stomach of the delicious meal she’d just enjoyed. She grimaced in regret as she saw a few bites of snack cakes still intact amongst the mess. ‘<em>What a waste.</em>’ She took a swig of purified water that she found on a shelf, swishing it around to cleanse the aftertaste of sick, then made her way slowly back to Pickman, who had found inside the shelter a terminal that still had power. He was sitting in an old office chair and leaning over the screen, where small blocks of text and dates lined up.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“Sorry about that...hey, are you <em>alright</em>?” Against her better judgement, she grasped his arm. The muscles were rigid beneath her fingers, and <b>trembling!</b> “Pickman? <em>What?</em> What’s <em>wrong?</em>” She followed his gaze. The dates and text she’d seen were diary entries by Mrs. Pennington, detailing how they’d sought shelter from the blasts here and how grateful she was that her husband had insisted on having this room installed, even though she’d griped about the expense and construction noise before, and how she hoped that soon help would arrive and they could make it to where any other survivors were. The entries started off cheerful, hopeful, then quickly grew worrisome. Both couples began noticing themselves transforming into ghouls from the radiation. For a while, they were horrified at the physical changes yet counted themselves lucky that they still had each other. Elderly Mr.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> Pennington </span>even made a joke that he would have looked similar in a few birthdays anyway. But, then the diary entries slowly began to become less and less coherent, presumably as the couple began the maddening descent into turning feral in their isolated prison together. The last message was mostly like someone slapped a keyboard. The only words decipherable were<br/></span>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">‘head...hurts</span>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">        ...angry...<br/></span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">             <em>so hungry</em>...</span>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">                             <em><b>kill!!!</b></em>’</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“God, this is horrifying!” Nora felt another wave of nausea bubble up inside her, but with massive effort she pushed it back down. Pickman didn’t respond, he only continued to stare at the screen, his piercing grey eyes cloudy and a thousand miles away.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“Nora...” he finally said, still not peeling his eyes away from the final entry “I’m <b><em>so very sorry...</em></b>” he looked positively haunted, and the shaking had grown more pronounced to where she could see it just looking at him.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“Hey, it’s not your fault. I don’t recall you dropping any bombs, okay?” She chanced rubbing his back comfortingly, trying to repay some of the kindness he’d shown her upstairs. He stopped her by grabbing one of her hands in his own. His touch was warm but clammy.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“You don’t understand. If I hadn’t come <em>here</em>, they would <em>never</em> have left this room. The doors...the entries. They smelled human meat and hot food and... it put you in a horrible position, one I wouldn’t wish on anyone. I invited you to dine with me to attempt to repay some of your kindness, and instead it seems I’ve caused you further heartbreak.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">Nora was shaking her head before he even finished, and she tugged her hand away from him, spinning the office chair around so he had to face her. She knelt down so they would be more level, placing her hands on his stuff shoulders. “Hey now, don’t be talking like that. Look, like you said earlier, they weren’t themselves anymore. What you did was more a mercy killing than anything else. They were <em>kind</em> people, and they never would have wanted to kill someone or eat them. You saved them from fully becoming monsters to their former selves. Now they can rest, finally. If anything, I should be thanking you for them. So, don’t go beating yourself up, okay?”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">He stared down at her in wonder, his eyes locking onto hers and his gaze once more present. “You are truly an amazing person. I feel lucky to have met you.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">She chuckled, standing up and gesturing for him to as well, to which he obliged, once more towering over her by a good few inches. “You know, as insanely weird as it sounds to say about someone in your line of ‘work’, I think I feel the same way, Pickman.” She grabbed his hand and tugged him toward the exit. “C’mon. If you don’t mind, we should lay them to rest more comfortably. I don’t have a shovel so we can’t bury them, but maybe we can do something besides heap their bodies on the floor. And, they knocked most of the food over but I bet some of it’s still good, and I need to eat again since I lost my last serving in the corner. Let’s get out of this place. It holds nothing but sad ghosts now.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Books and Bloodstains</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A shorter chapter that moves at a more clipped pace to get some information through. The next one will be more lingering, and then SHORTLY after that we’ll be getting back to the present.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>       Leaning back to gain a better perspective, and holding his fingers in front of his eyes as a makeshift 'frame', Pickman admired his latest sculptural work. Nora and he had propped Mr. and Mrs. Pennington on their dilapidated loveseat, placing their gnarled hands over one another's. They'd previously salvaged and eaten what food they could from before, then ventured out together to gather what plants and flowers they could. Luckily, a florist was a few doors down that Nora remembered, and she came back with arms full of wilted blossoms that somehow survived all of this time. Things like this and the fact that preserved food had survived relatively unscathed aside from now containing one extra ingredient (a daily dose of radiation) really made her question what was being put into things before the bombs. This was hardly natural, but boy was it convenient. Pickman had managed to find a few carrot blossoms and hub flowers. They worked side by side, carefully placing the flowers around the old couple, and on top of their hands to hide the ripped off nails that still made Nora shudder. Now that they were finished, he was quite oddly pleased with his, no their, handiwork. He'd never collaborated on a single piece, unless you cared to count his model's rather unwilling participation in his works, and he'd only done a memorial like this once before...for his mother.</p><p> </p><p>       "Well, it's a far cry from my usual style, but I dare say we managed rather marvelously. What do you think?" He turned to Nora, who was tapping her chin with her index finger. She heard him and turned to him with a soft smile that melted something in him.</p><p> </p><p>       "Beautiful as always, Pickman. Thank you so much."</p><p> </p><p>       He was going to have to see someone soon to get his heart checked. These skipped beats couldn't be healthy. He smirked grimly.</p><p> </p><p>        "<em>Now</em> who has the unconventional view of beauty?"</p><p> </p><p>       She shoved his arm playfully, but then stared at her hand, puzzled. What was it about this man that put her at such ease, considering all he had done? And he was so kind to her. He didn’t have to help her nearly as much as he had today.</p><p> </p><p>        <em>'What a <b>weird</b> world...I guess chivalry isn’t entirely dead.</em>’ Nora pondered as she bade him farewell, the promise to see him again falling so easily from her lips as she left, clutching the repaired clock under one arm and waving with the other. She planned to tuck it away in her living room in Goodneighbor, where she was slowly starting to piece together a new ‘home’. Sanctuary just didn’t feel right anymore, not with Nate’s frozen body so close to the house that was filled with so many memories that tugged at her soul around every corner.</p><p> </p><p>       It was only hours after she had departed that Pickman remembered where there original conversation had left off.</p><p> </p><p>       <em>'I need to find and kill a Courser...’</em></p><p> </p><p>“Shit!” He cursed, hurriedly packing his belongings and grabbing a rusted key off the counter on his way out, with which he locked the front door of the shop. If luck was on his side, he’d be able to catch up with his killer, and shadow her. He felt a bit like a stalker doing so, but she seemed dead set on her goal. He winced inwardly at his own poor choice of words. He decided he would watch, keep an eye on her and when she found and confronted the Courser, should the fighting go ill for her, he would step in and assist her as she had once had him.</p><p> </p><p>A week later, his fears ended up being groundless after all. Nora had brought along the mayor of Goodneighbor, John Hancock, whom she’d teamed up with almost immediately after she left him. They were nigh inseparable in her travels, he noted. The pair stood over the bullet-riddled corpse of the synth agent and high-fived without looking up.</p><p> </p><p>“Teamwork makes the dream work!” She nudged him. He beamed at her.</p><p> </p><p>“Ain’t that the truth, sunshine! And you and I are the <em>dream team!</em>”</p><p> </p><p>They proceeded to do a funky little dance around each other, laughing from the leftover adrenaline and the joy that Nora was now one huge step closer to finding her son.</p><p> </p><p>They had been entirely in sync the whole battle, with Hancock hefting a mini gun that dealt out a barrage of flaming rounds and with Nora cocking and firing her favored shotgun, switching to the shadows to plug a few well-placed 50 caliber sniper rounds when she took too much damage. She would dash out to jam a stimpak into her partner, then disappear again, blending so well into the environment that even the Courser couldn’t track her. It helped that it more than had its hands full with Hancock, who cackled maniacally while raining lead Hell.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh <em>yeah</em>! What’s the matter big guy? Can’t handle my hot load?”</p><p> </p><p>Nora hadn’t been able to help an echoing guffaw, which distracted the Courser long enough for Hancock to hit him square in the skull. That, paired with one more clean shot between the eyes from Nora, had been all she wrote. Now, they were able to extract the chip and move on with their mission.</p><p> </p><p>Feeling a strange hollow emptiness in his chest, Pickman had retreated back to Boston, comforted at least that his killer was in safe hands. With what he’d seen on the road, Hancock seemed ready and able to rip anything that threatened the woman to shreds with a satisfaction that was at times disturbingly familiar, and made Pickman wonder if that was similar to what he looked like when he was ‘gathering art supplies’.</p><p> </p><p>After that, he’d been busy as she had, and they’d only met up a handful of times before she had to press on with her main objective. Nora teamed up with the Railroad to gain access to the Institute, and he used the time to catch up on projects, and to once again instill a healthy dose of terror into the local raider population. He hadn’t made another gallery or visited his own again. He considered it too risky at the moment to rest his head in one place for too long. Over a month had passed and he was beginning to worry. He still left her clues in his notes, on the off chance that she came back and wanted to seek him out, and update him on her life. He hoped for her sake she’d been successful, but he’d never heard of anyone actually retrieving a loved one from the cold, omnipresent clutches of the Institute.</p><p> </p><p>He had been reading an old mystery novel, holed up in the old book shop for a few days and sipping a cracked glass of whiskey, when he’d heard the door creak in, and shuffling, unfamiliar footsteps. Jumping to his feet, he grabbed his knife and crept low to the ground to the entrance.</p><p> </p><p>Instead of an intruder, he found himself face to face with Nora, or rather what seemed a broken, fragile shell of her. Her hair was a mess, half out of its tie, and her skin was beaded with sweat and too pale, except for the darkened circles under her eyes which were puffy and red. She’d been crying.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey, <em>killer</em>...” she gave a watery smile, turning her nickname back on him, then collapsing to the floor with a <em>thud</em>. She’d been clutching one of his calling cards with this location hinted in her hands, and it loosed from her grip upon her fall and fluttered onto his shoe, stained with more than the bloody heart he’d signed with. For one of the scarce few times of his life, the sight of blood made Pickman’s heart sink.</p>
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<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Inconvenient Instincts</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>smol amount of nudity, tension, etc ahead!</p>
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</p><p> </p><p>As gently and swiftly as possible, Pickman hauled Nora onto the front counter of the old book store. The dust it kicked up worried him. It was hardly a sterile environment suited for this kind of delicate work, but based on the amount of blood Nora was losing, he didn’t have time to clean or find a real surgeon.</p><p> </p><p>She was completely out of it, no longer responding to his words, head lolling uselessly to the side while her red hair spilled over the edge of the counter like a waterfall, come loose from whatever she’d been holding it back with. She favored road leathers and the like, reinforced by ballistic weave and metal plating sewn between the layers, nearly everywhere she could fit the protection. The only spaces left vulnerable were her neck and head, tips of her fingers since she’d donned a modified pair of gloves, and her joints where she had to allow free range of movement. It was at one of these junctures that a piece of shrapnel had gotten lucky, buried deep within her right thigh near the front, right between it and her pelvic bone. He could see it poking out from here. There were fresh burn marks and surface tears on the rest of the front of her armor, suggesting that the other pieces had thankfully glanced off.</p><p> </p><p>Pickman has been the witness (and often cause) of enough injury in his day to recognize that Nora had a severed artery. He had to remove the metal, clean the wound, and then almost immediately feed her enough stimpaks to heal the damage or she would bleed out within another half hour, maybe less. That time window would be closing significantly faster as soon as he removed the chunk that was simultaneously harming her and clogging the hole it had made. Who knew how long she’d been hobbling through Boston like this? What had she been thinking? She was <em>never</em> this reckless that he had seen. Every step would have caused massive damage and pain and he knew for a fact that she never left on any trek without ample provisions.</p><p> </p><p>Dashing over to his bag in the corner of the room, he dug through it, trembling fingers getting in the way. With a frustrated yell, he ended up dumping its contents onto a nearby table, yanking his first aid kit out of the pile of clutter. When he got back to Nora’s side, he hastily unzipped it and set it near her head. She groaned and briefly showed signs of consciousness, so he leaned in to ask her</p><p> </p><p>“Nora, dear, your injury is in a very...<em>sensitive</em> region. I have to remove your armor to treat it. Will you trust me?”</p><p> </p><p>A brilliant green eye cracked open briefly and stared at his face, with such tenderness that he was taken aback. “I trust you. Stupid of me...but...<em>always have</em>...” her eye slipped shut again and Nora was once again lost to her near-coma.</p><p>
  
</p><p><em>‘She <b>trusts</b> me. Always has, she said.’</em> </p><p> </p><p>       This information shocked Pickman, and rightfully so. He pondered it even as he began to strip off the lower layers of her leathers. Her words also had a second effect that was much stronger and more ferocious than the shock that reeled his mind and heart. It was a steel determination, tempered in a fire of resolve and the ever present and ever alien feeling that he needed to protect this woman. There was no way in this hellscape that he would let Nora die. The world needed her, a balance of beauty and kindness against the hideousness of raiders’ and the rest of the world’s cruelty. <em>He</em> needed her, he realized. She quieted his demons, and swept away his loneliness with an ease that was astounding. He would be aggrieved if he were robbed of further visits with her. However, he was unable to follow that train of thought, or any, when he finally tugged the last layer off of her legs.</p><p> </p><p>She was <em>very</em> beautiful. He gulped. Long porcelain legs with so few nicks and scars, and smooth. Seemed his killer kept up some old grooming habits from her world. Her most private part was somewhat hidden by trimmed red hair. <em>Well, now he knew she never dyed it,</em> he chuckled grimly to himself, trying mightily to fight down the physical reaction his biologically male body was having to the sight... The wound, now fully bared to the light, was a potent distraction from such nonsense, and as he set aside ripped strips of cloth from one of his spare shirts, he also pulled out two stimpaks and a pair of pliers.</p><p> </p><p>“This is going to be anything but pleasant, and I’m sorry that I don’t have a dose of Med-X on hand or anything else to dull the pain. And we can’t wait a second longer!”</p><p> </p><p>He plunged the first stimpak into her with one hand and in the same motion, yanked the shrapnel clean from her. Her eyes snapped open and she shrieked, loudly enough to hurt his ears, as it came loose. She arched off the counter so violently that he had to pin her shoulders down, whispering reassurances all the while. After much thrashing she finally settled and was still once more. Pickman examined the offending object. It was only the one jagged piece, about 4 inches long and perhaps two wide, and even as it had torn more flesh upon its sudden exit, her bleeding slowed to a muted flow right away. The piece didn’t break, and nothing but dirt was left in the wound now.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s alright killer, the worst part is over.” Be soothed her, smoothing her hair with his free hand. He sighed in relief, holding the metal up to his face with a sneer.“<em>This</em> is for hurting her.” He chucked it out of sight, feeling a bit foolish for talking to an inanimate object, but his anger at Nora’s brush with death had to be channeled somewhere. He poured precious water over her leg, dabbing and fishing bits of filth out with some of the cloth. Every time his fingers would brush her thigh or lower curls, it would feel like someone had punched him in the gut with a fistful of flame. He knew it was only natural. It had been years now since he’d seen any woman unclothed outside of art books.</p><p>      <em> ‘Still, what an inconvenient instinct’ </em>he thought. When he was satisfied with the state of the still gaping hole in Nora’s thigh, Pickman administered the final stimpak, letting the skin knit back together even as he watched.</p><p> </p><p>It was a funny thing that the same world that had produced such lifesaving wonders had also produced instruments of death that had unleashed glowing waves of chaos upon the entire planet.</p><p> </p><p>He hefted himself onto the counter carefully sitting by her legs and draping her right one over his lap. He placed a clean gauze over the remaining wound. The muscle tissue and tendons were mostly healed, but he had no more stimpaks to spare, so the rest was up to her own body. Holding the gauze steady with one hand, he began winding a fresh bandage around her thigh with his free hand until it had gone around enough times to hold the gauze and keep it from shifting. Her leg being placed over his lap lifted it enough to allow him to pass underneath without constantly needing to shift her. Still, it was a bothersome predicament. He was quite literally between his killer’s thighs, her very <em>very</em> soft and warm thighs, and now that her life was no longer in any direct danger, it was extremely difficult to ignore.</p><p> </p><p>He’d never been what you’d call ‘<em>intimate</em>’ with another person before. He’d had urges just like anyone, but they had been purely physical, and after he had studied all he desired to of the carnal end of the wide and wildly fascinating spectrum of human emotions, he’d refrained from further contact. He felt no need for such things without a deep connection, which he’d long since accepted would never be a part of his lifestyle. Now however, his heart and body raged to life, burning with a passion that scared and excited him. He wished to explore this new wave of feeling with the person who’d inspired it, and indeed, the only person who he believed he could be vulnerable enough with to truly enjoy himself in that situation. But, what a pipe dream that seemed. Even if he would tell her, what could he even expect? She was a mother on a mission to find her missing child, she had no time to dally with the likes of him. And, that was another obstacle. He wasn’t blind. He had one of the worst reputations in the commonwealth. There was no reason to entertain that their touted hero would be anything but a friend towards Boston’s most notorious murderer, and if anyone even knew about <em>that</em> it would be hell for her from her peers. She deserved the best possible future after everything she’d endured. It was a terrible, <em>tempting, <b>terrible</b></em> idea.</p><p> </p><p><em>Intimate</em>, came the invasive thought again as he finished tucking the loose end of the bandage and sat back to study her sleeping face. Such a thing required trust, which was something he felt he was usually extremely short on. But, with Nora it was <em>different</em>. He’d known the second she’d leapt out of the shadows like a panther, blade flashing and knife plunging into a raider, that he could trust her. Apparently, unless her confession was one of delirium thanks to massive blood loss, she felt the same. <em>And he had absolutely no idea what to do about it. </em>Considering everything he was feeling, the wisest course of action would be to distance himself from her once she was healed for both of their sakes.</p><p> </p><p>Just this once, this one time, Pickman didn’t want to <em>be</em> wise...</p>
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